


One Last Candle Burning Low

by onthewayside



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A Christmas Prince AU no one asked for, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Eventual Hank Anderson/Connor, Fluff and Angst, Here there be tropes, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, So many tropes, but what the hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-12 11:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthewayside/pseuds/onthewayside
Summary: Hank Anderson writes articles about crime. So why Fowler sends him in to cover some Crown Prince's royal wedding in a tiny country in nowhere Europe is beyond him, even if the Crown Prince has a smile that could melt any cold, dead heart.(Or, an all-human AU loosely based on 'A Christmas Prince' because tis the season for Christmas trash)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I watched Netflix's 'A Christmas Prince' last year after a bottle or three of wine. I actually don't remember much about it except that the main character's journalism skills were not great and there was an annoying kid and horses and lots of snow. Somehow, after being bedridden by the flu, the hazy memories of that terrible movie (coupled with obsessing over Hank and Connor) inspired me to start typing up this piece of trash and I haven't been able to stop.
> 
> I make no apologies for how this will turn out (only that I really am trying to make the characters fit into a cheap holiday RomCom without completely destroying them). I also make no promises on finishing this anywhere close to Christmas because I am a slow writer and this time of year gets busy with work and with life. But I will try my best.
> 
> And if there's at least one person out there who can appreciate this holiday mess, then I salute you, friend.
> 
> (Title taken from 'Mistletoe A Christmas Poem by Walter de la Mare)

\- - -

_One Last Candle Burning Low_

\- - -

 

_Chapter 1_

 

\- - -

 

_December 17 th, 2018_

 

Jeffrey Fowler is a dead man.

 

Hank blinks, re-reads the same cluster of sentences for the hundredth time, struggling with the weight of what those words entail as they sink into his tired, hungover brain. He narrows his eyes as he once again sees those damning final words, then grits his teeth.

 

Fuck _this_. Boss or not, Jeffrey Fowler is going to be a dead man, but he's going to die a slow and tortured death at Hank's hands. Preferably breathing his last few breaths while that shitty Christmas music he loves so much is blasting in his ears.

 

Either that or this is some fucked up idea of a holiday joke. Hank toys with the idea but just as quickly dismisses it. Fowler is a lot of things—one of Hank's oldest friends being an important _thing_ that is currently balancing out Hank's bloodlust—but his sense of humour does not extend to sending out joke emails. Hell, Fowler had made them all sit through an hour long session on proper office email etiquette when Chris had accidentally 'replied all' with an unfortunate meme about lazy editors.

 

No, this can't be a joke. Which makes it so, _so_ much worse.

 

Cursing, Hank shoves back from his desk, his chair flying into a filing cabinet with a satisfying crash, and marches with determination through the maze of desks that make up The Detroit Post, papers and tinsel fluttering in his wake.

 

“What crawled up your ass, Anderson? That baby Jesus snatcher come back to steal the Wise Men or something?” Gavin Reed calls out as Hank stalks by, that stupid smirk plastered on his stupid scruffy face, like he knows exactly why his fellow journalist is stomping towards Fowler's office.

 

For a brief second, Hank debates flinging the closest thing at hand into his stupid fucking nose, but the only thing in reach and worth throwing is North's porcelain Christmas tree that she inherited from her great grandmother and she would not appreciate him using it as a projectile. The delivery guy from last week had made the fatal mistake of bumping into it when he'd been walking by and North had thanked him by stabbing a pen through his clipboard.

 

With the porcelain tree off-limits, Hank settles for flipping Reed the bird. He doesn't bother telling him to 'get fucked' as per their usual witty banter, because he has to save his voice for yelling at Fowler until that shitty email gets retracted out of Hank's inbox and out of Hank's life.

 

The door to Fowler's office crashes open with a bang as Hank bursts through, the tiny bells decorating the window tinkling maniacally like some kind of Christmas alarm for 'Pissed Off Journalist Now Entering The Premises'.

 

Hank slams both hands down on Fowler's desk, rattling a decorative plastic snowman family so badly that the little snow kid goes flying from the desk and onto the floor. He doesn't give his boss a chance to react before he gets right to the point. “What in the ever loving fuck was _that_?”

 

Jeffrey, to his credit, doesn't even blink. He gestures vaguely at the empty chair, eyes glued to his computer screen as he taps away at the keyboard. _Probably writing some new email to ruin someone else's day_ , Hank thinks bitterly. “Good morning to you too, Hank. Have a seat.”

 

“That's all you can say to me? Sit down? Of course I'm not fucking sitting down. Not until you tell me that email was some kind of shitty joke.”

 

“If I wanted to play a joke on you, I wouldn't do it by email.” Jeffrey taps out a few last words, then leans back from his terminal and finally meets Hank's irate glare. “I also don't think receiving an email about a decent proposition for an article that would help get our December sales up is something to laugh about.”

 

“Does it look like I'm fucking laughing?” Hank snarls. “That email was bullshit, Jeff. You know it, I know it, hell, if you showed it to Gavin Shithead Reed, even he'd know it. The question is: how did it end up in my inbox, of all godforsaken places?”

 

Jeffrey Fowler can be an intimidating man when he wants to be. Hank had been on the receiving end of of the patented Fowler staredown (shoulders straightened, jutting chin, eyes narrow and frigid) many times in his three years at The Post, but somehow it still managed to stop him in his tracks.

 

“ _Hank_ ,” Fowler says his name slowly, his voice even and cool, “you need to turn around, shut the door, and then. Take. A. Goddamn. Seat. HR gets pretty pissy if you interrupt their vacation and I don't want to them on my ass because one of my journalists has to be written up for harassment right before Christmas break.”

 

Those last few words are delivered with enough iciness that it eats through Hank's fiery rage as effectively as a bucket of cold water dumped on his head. Hank swears under his breath but does as he's asked—even going so far as to shut the stupid door gently—and takes a seat (he leaves the little snowman kid on the floor because he's still fucking pissed and if he can't take it out on Fowler, then his lame Christmas decorations will have to suffer instead).

 

“Good. Now can we talk like adults or are you going to have another tantrum?”

 

“Oh we can talk, Jeff. Better yet, you can talk and I'll listen, because you have a shitload of explaining to do.”

 

“Jesus, Hank, you're lucky we have a history, or I would have had to fire you years ago.” Jeffrey sighs. “You know, there are journalists out there who would kill for an offer like the one I just sent you. And you're sitting here, acting like some entitled jackass, just because you think it's beneath you to write an article that doesn't feature drug busts or crooked cops.”

 

“Yeah, because it's what I fucking do. It's what I write. And I write it _well_. ”

 

“No one's saying you don't. But Christmas isn't exactly a hot time of year for crime—”

 

“Bull _shit_ ,” Hank interjects, his skin prickling hotly at the assumption. “Last year I was working overtime with all the break-ins and Christmas decorations heists going on. And that article about the big finance CEO getting caught with that hooker dressed like Mrs. Claus took up my whole Christmas eve and most of Christmas day too. All the articles were related to crime and I was happy to write them because, guess what? They're in my fucking line of work.”

 

“I'm not saying you don't work hard, I'm saying crime stories don't sell well when everyone's wrapped up in Christmas cheer.” Fowler is scowling now, drags a folder out from under a stack of books and flings it across the desk at Hank. “You know what's in there? A collection of all the most viewed articles off of our website during the month of December. Take a look and tell me what you see.”

 

Hank grabs the folder and flips it open to the first printed article at the top of the pile. It's one of Chris Miller's articles, titled ' _The Little Dancer That Could_ '. Hank skims through the first few paragraphs even though he knows exactly what to expect, because Chris and his 'People of Detroit' series was well-loved in the city and his formula was pretty much set in stone. Not that Hank minded reading them once in a while. Chris was a good guy—he genuinely appreciated all of the oddballs and weirdos that he encountered and his appreciation for their quirks showed in his work and made them seem entirely human. Even that freak who turned an abandoned warehouse into a pigeon sanctuary seemed like a regular guy once Chris was done with him and Hank hated those flying rats with a burning passion.

 

He flips and flips and flips and yeah, the trend emerges all right. By the twentieth article ( _'Beware The Skunk – Local Dog Gets Sprayed Three Times In One Day!'_ ), it's all Hank can do not to set fire to the whole folder.

 

He's not a monster; he gets _why_ people like these articles. Stories about kittens being saved from trees and beautiful people getting married to other beautiful people and sweet, charitable grandmas and every other tooth-rotting cliche of a feel-good story appeal to people who need a boost in their otherwise mundane life. The public has always preferred to escape the real world rather than face it and Hank's been heartily aware of the fact that his own writing preferences do not provide a convenient exit from life.

 

But that's the fucking point. Hank doesn't _write_ lifestyle pieces. Hasn't written one since he was an intern and that was only because at that time in his life, he was as eager as a puppy, willing to jump on any kind of story if it meant giving him a boost up the journalistic ladder. At fifty-three, the only eagerness Hank feels these days is when his paycheck arrives and he can treat himself to a decent brand of whiskey.

 

“I get it,” Hank sighs, tossing the folder back on the desk. “This assignment would probably boost our readership rates sky high and make the big bosses piss their pants in joy. But I can't write it.”

 

Fowler leans forward, arms crossed on the desk. “You're gonna have to, Hank. Our publisher wants this article written before the end of the year—hell, they wanted it written _yesterday_ —and everyone else is out.”

 

“Someone's gotta be here. I can't be the only loser who picked up the Christmas shift.”

 

“Trust me, you think you were my first choice? I would have given it to Josh but he's down in Baton Rouge for his grandmother's ninetieth birthday.” Holding up a hand, Jeffrey starts ticking down the names, finger by finger. “Chris's wife had a baby two days ago. North is going back home to New York tonight. Tina is currently halfway across the world, meeting her boyfriend's family for the first time. Hell, even Gavin's got a solid week and a half of vacation starting in a few hours. The rest of the staff who are stuck here are either too fresh out of school to handle something this big or they would give me the same fluff piece that every other news outlet is going to publish. There is literally no one else I would trust to write this article.”

 

“What about Ben?”

 

The corner of Jeffrey's left eye twitches and Hank wonders how much effort it takes his boss not to roll his eyes sky high. “You're kidding me? _Ben_? He's a goddamn food critic.” Jeffrey shakes his head. “Anyway, he's got the week of Boxing Day off to go a Caribbean cruise with his husband.”

 

His boss— _his friend_ , Hank's brain supplies helpfully—leans forward and for the first time Hank can see the tiredness etched into the lines of Jeffrey's face. “Hank, you have to believe me. You're all I've got.”

 

“Fuck, don't give me that look.” Hank groans, leans back in his chair and stares hard at the ceiling because he can feel his resolve cracking and damn if he isn't gonna make his friend grovel just a bit longer. “It's a goddamn royal wedding, Jeff. A fucking million-dollar marriage spectacle paid by innocent taxpayers to watch some stuffy prince marry some airhead socialite. What do you expect me to do? Chat with the caterers about the food menu? Ask the florist about the flowers in the bride's bouquet? Interview the blushing bride about her designer dress?”

 

“I'm not looking for a minute-by-minute play of how the damn wedding goes down. Just a decent full page article on the current members of the royal family and on the bride and maybe a few political commentary pieces on the idea of the monarchy as a whole.”

 

Hank snorts. “Is that all? Because I remember reading something about going undercover inside the palace, which kind of seems like overkill for a simple wedding piece.”

 

“So maybe there's some rumours about the Prince that I want you to investigate. Rumours like the wedding is a sham, something about political motivation to keep the royal family in power. I might have even heard that the bride-to-be is an American heiress who was photographed topless on Elijah Kamski's personal yacht just this past June and who was suddenly being prepped to be a princess a month later. There's some interesting pieces to this story. It would be even more interesting if someone was able to connect the dots.”

 

Hank mulls this new information over. “You don't mean Detroit's own Kamski? That greasy hipster who keeps yapping about how he's going to revolutionize AI systems and bring back glory and money to our...what did he call it again? Our neglected ruin of a city?”

 

“The very same. He's a billionaire. He can say whatever he wants and people will buy into it.” Jeffrey's voice loses its hard edge, because he's a fucking bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out Hank's interest in a subject (and Hank _is_ starting to be interested, damn him). “Not only is Kamski potentially involved in this royal wedding business, but this is the same royal family who have Detroit roots. Their mother was from Grosse Point, born and raised. She even met her royal husband in the city when he was here for some charity thing. Gavin did a whole article on it last year for what would have been their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

 

There is something satisfying in knowing that Gavin Reed had to sit his smug ass down on some fancy sofa and interview an actual member of an uppity royal family without coming off as a major tool. It makes this whole assignment suddenly seem less hellish (because if fuckwad Reed can do it, Hank can do it and do it better). “And how did Reed's story do?”

 

“It was the second most read piece online, right after ' _Our New Striped Enemies – The Rise of Intelligence in City Raccoons_ '. Why do you think he finally got the green light to write that piece on corruption at City Hall? It sure as shit wasn't because of his friendly attitude.”

 

The numbers and recognition that are going to be associated with this assignment are...appealing. Hank's usual crime articles do just fine, but this might be his chance at having some leverage to write what he really wants. Or, at the very least, to get him off the hook for writing more shitty lifestyle pieces in the future.

 

“This story is starting to sound like every Detroit paper's wet dream,” Hank remarks wryly “No wonder they're pushing us to do it. Local girl turned princess or queen or whatever. Local megalomaniac connected to the future queen. Prince with a Detroit pedigree. Hell, it almost sounds too good to be true.”

 

“It's not gonna be boring,” Jeffrey promises him. “And all your travel expenses are already fully covered.”

 

“First class?”

 

“You wish. But you're gonna be staying in a goddamn palace so you won't be suffering.” Fowler laughs and the tension that had been thickening the air since Hank stormed in begins to dissipate. “So you'll stop bitching me out and do it?”

 

Hank looks at his friend, the same man who'd stuck his neck out for him time and time and time again. Jeffrey Fowler had been there for Hank's first time getting drunk, had been best man at his wedding, had offered Hank a lifeline when he'd given him the job at The Detroit Post, even though Hank had still been drowning in a quagmire of grief. As much as he hated to admit it, Hank owed him one.

 

Hank runs a tired hand down his face, resignation settling into his bones. “Well, shit. This had better be the first and last wedding article you ever, _ever_ make me write, or so help me God I will find a way to make you pay.”

 

“How about I start rewarding your loyalty by giving you the rest of the day off? There's a lot of reading you're gonna need to do to prepare. You might as well do it in the comfort of your own home.” Jeffrey rummages around in a filing cabinet behind his desk and drags out a few hefty piles of papers, held precariously together by clips and a ridiculous amount of rubber bands. “Your flight leaves at 6 pm tomorrow. I'll swing by your place around noon to prep you on how this undercover operation is actually going to work and then I'll take you to the airport.”

 

Hank picks up his homework, tries not to grimace at the weight or the thought of just how much cramming he's going to have to do in the next twenty-four hours to at least pull off a decent cover story. “Thanks for the offer, but I can drive just fine.”

 

“Normally I wouldn't fight you, but not this time. The only way I can guarantee you getting on that plane is if I deliver you to the gate myself.” Jeffrey turns back to his computer. “Now get out of here. You've got a lot of work to do.”

 

\- - -

 

Contrary to popular belief, Hank Anderson has some standards. One of his standards is to not get shit-faced before noon, no matter how sweetly the slide of a good stiff drink down his throat would help him deal with the sudden realization that in roughly twenty-four hours, he's going to be on a plane for the first time in fucking years, jetting off to a country he knows nothing about, to spy on people who probably have the power to throw him into a dungeon or some shit like that if things go south.

 

So he drives by his usual boozy haunts (most of them closed anyway, so it's not like he even had the option) and straight to an old favourite.

 

The warm light emanating from The Chicken Feed is like a balm to his troubled soul and the familiar smell of frying onions and grease helps re-center Hank's stormy emotions. For a moment, he debates grabbing his burger and eating in the car, but the thought of the mountain of papers on the passenger seat has him making a beeline for one of the outdoor tables, winter chill be damned.

 

As he digs into what will probably be his last decent burger for the next two weeks, Hank finally has time to let the weight of what this assignment—no, jail sentence—sink in. It's been fucking years since he's done something as risky as going undercover and the thought of having to pretend to be a completely different person, all the while balancing on the tightrope of trying not to fuck up the investigation, is almost too much for his brain to handle right now.

 

It's not that he didn't want to do the story—not anymore at least, now that Fowler had given him a few choice nuggets of information that teased at a story bigger than some sideshow of a wedding—but the amount of effort that this story is going to require from his sad old self is going to be monumental. Even the thought of the first flight to London, strapped into those miserably small seats on a what is essentially a tin can with wings, has Hank shuddering. The only flights he's been on lately have all been quick hops around the country. He hasn't done anything international since his days at the New York Times and the fleeting glimpse of those particular memories is enough to add to the already substantial weight on his shoulders.

  
_Ah fuck_ , Hank thinks miserably. _It's gonna be a fucking nightmare._

 

A nightmare he won't be able to escape until December 30th, according to his return ticket. But it's a nightmare that will pay the bills (maybe even nab him a bonus if it does well and Hank is determined to at least do his job fucking well) and will ensure some job security for at least the next year.

 

_Besides_ , the more rational part of his brain adds, _you could probably just write some schmoozy piece on the royal family and all those fun little million-dollar wedding details, and gush about the new bride and it would still sell like hotcakes_. Even if it's not the story Jeffrey wants, it could be a story that the public would still want to read, no sacrificing of his job required.

 

It's a comforting thought. A comforting thought for someone who can write about weddings and love and other shit like that without the need to be seriously hammered. Which is not someone Hank has ever claimed to be.

 

He's so stuck in his thoughts—like how the fuck he's going to type out the words 'and she gazed deeply into his eyes as she repeated the words 'I do'' without wanting to kill himself—that he visibly jumps when he hears the roar of a familiar motorcycle squealing to a halt.

 

_Shit, can't a guy get some privacy to fucking brood?_ Hank gripes, although there is no bitterness to the thought. He likes North well enough—can appreciate her 'no fucks given' attitude towards life and everyone in it—and at least she won't sit there and gush about how lucky he is that he got assigned this spectacular turd of an article.

 

He's taking his last few bites of his sweet, sweet burger as his friend and fellow reporter plods over in her usual heavy black boots to join him. Hank chews slowly, then swallows under her measured stare. “How'd you find me?”

 

North tosses her braid over her shoulder, balancing her fiery red helmet on her hip as she leans against the edge of the table. “Easy. This is where you usually come to drown your sorrows when the bars aren't open.”

 

“And why did you think I'd be drowning my sorrows?”

 

“Because I got a text from Gavin ten minutes ago, saying you were having a hissy fit about some new article that Fowler assigned you.” North raises an eyebrow. “Something about you covering a royal wedding in some backwater country that nobody cares about?”

 

Hank fights the urge to roll his eyes. The gossip mill at work is terrifyingly efficient, probably because they were all decent journalists who knew exactly how to investigate even the weakest of leads.

 

“So that's what they're saying?” Hank pretends to think on it, finishes his burger with one last satisfying chomp. “Hmph.”

 

“Don't use that attitude with me, Anderson,” North says. “I know it's true. Gavin was hinting about some stupid wedding story last week. I just didn't think you'd be the poor sucker assigned to write it up.”

 

The fact that Reed apparently knew about it beforehand explains his shit-eating grin as Hank had headed out of the office, practically staggering under the weight of all the papers he'd been given, even though there was no way anybody in that office would have heard Fowler's pitch with the door being closed. Fuck, he should have thrown that Christmas tree at Reed's face, North's wrath be damned.

 

Hank frowns. “How the hell did Reed know about it?”

 

North shrugs. “No idea. He did do that article a while ago on the royal family, so maybe he still as an in?” Her lips quirk. “Shit, you're gonna be talking to _royals_. Like, an actual prince and princess and whatever the fuck else they have in their family. You're gonna have to learn how to bow and shit too!” Her grin stretches wider as Hank's frown deepens. “Oh man, maybe I should ditch the family plans and just tag along with you instead. It would be worth it to watch you suffer through two weeks of royal rules or etiquette or whatever .”

 

“Nice to see someone's fucking enjoying this,” Hank grumbles, a new anxiety coiling in his stomach because now that North has brought it up, he realizes she's absolutely right. Not only does he have to go undercover, but he's gonna have to follow strict protocols and call people 'your highness' and he's even gonna have to learn how to fucking bow like some Regency-era servant.

 

He didn't think it was possible, but this assignment just veered off the Highway of Bullcrap and is now careening straight into Hank's Ninth Level of Fiery Hell.

 

He must have gone quiet for an awkward amount of time because when he claws his way out of thinking about bowing and how do you actually properly bow without making it seem stupid and how the fuck do you actually address a prince without getting hauled off to the dungeon, North's smile is gone and she's watching him carefully. _Probably wondering if I'm gonna have another fucking hissy fit._

 

“Hey, old man, you okay? I didn't mean to freak you out.”

 

He waves her worry off. “Nah, don't worry. You're not telling me something I don't already know.” He lets out a long breath as he runs a hand through his hair. “It's just been a long fucking morning and I've got a lot of work I have to do if I'm gonna pull this shitshow off.”

 

“You're a good journalist,” North says sincerely. “And your article is going to kick some ass, even if it is about some bougie wedding.”

 

Hank huffs out a humourless laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.”

 

“So what do you know about these royals anyway?” North asks, deftly switching topics, as if she senses that Hank is already writing up his resignation letter in his head (he isn't but he's starting to question just how much bowing his job is worth). She plunks her helmet down on the table and repositions herself more comfortably against the table.

 

Part of Hank just wants to go home and flop down onto the couch and sleep (and drink) until this day is over, but another part of him is actually appreciating the company. After that plane takes off tomorrow, he won't have any familiar faces around him. No friends or colleagues to bounce ideas off of. No one to have his back if things get problematic. As dedicated a loner as he is, Hank can't help but appreciate North's willingness to hang around his grumpy self for a few more minutes.

 

Not that he would ever let her know that. She's just about as good with handling emotions as he is—which isn't saying much—and he's sure as hell not going to make their final hangout before the new year (and before Hank's probable arrest for eating with the wrong fork and being sent to rot in a foreign jail cell for the rest of his sad life) weird.

 

Hank thinks on the few pages he managed to skim. Judging by the literal pile of papers in his car, there's a fuckload more to this family than a couple pieces of paper can convey, but he'd been able to get a brief overview. “Not much, right now. I know that there's three kids—two boys and a girl—and that their parents died in a helicopter crash two years ago. The Crown Prince managed to avoid becoming King at the time because his dad's will got messy or something, and the country has a system of government that seems to handle things just fine. Sounds like the wedding is partly a gamble to fast track the coronation, because the Prince hasn't exactly jumped at the chance to throw on a crown these past few years.”

 

“Can't say I blame him,” North muses. “Can you imagine having to deal with a whole _country_ of people asking for your attention? I can barely handle my family asking me to do shit.”

 

“You couldn't pay me enough to be a king,” Hank agrees. “Although the unlimited riches wouldn't be such a bad thing.”

 

North makes a sound of disapproval. “Yeah, except it's at the expense of all the peasants who you rule over. Gotta have a pretty good mental block to live like that. Eating fancy foods and sleeping on silk sheets while the family one town over has to decide whether they can afford food for the week.” She shakes her head, disgust written plainly on her face. “Its the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages. It's a fucking joke that royalty exists at all.”

 

“You're preaching to the choir but that attitude is not gonna help me get this story written,” Hank says grimly. “So yeah, that about sums up what I've read so far. Fowler's given me enough material to keep me reading for weeks though, so I'm sure I'll be a fucking expert by the time I get back”

 

“That's it? That's all you know?”

 

Hank doesn't like the look North suddenly gets, the glint in her eyes and the thinning of her lips as she tries to hide a smile. He knows that look and he knows it usually spells some kind of trouble. “What? Do you know something I don't?”

 

Casually, she unzips a pocket and pulls out her phone. “Only what I read in Gavin's article.”

 

“Fuck.” Hank curses at yet another bombshell North just dropped on him. “I'm probably gonna have to read it. And he fucking knows it too, that little shit. No wonder he was all sunshine and rainbows this morning.”

 

“He's actually a decent journalist. But if you ever so much as whisper that I said that to him, you're fucking dead.” North taps away at something on her phone. “No, it's not what I read that's kind of interesting. It's what the brothers looks like that might float your boat.”

 

It's a weird statement to make, and Hank is about to tell her it's weird (even though he's fully aware that North knows his type because their first bonding experience had been over checking out the same guy during a work event) when North turns her phone around and shows him just what she's talking about.

 

“Hank Anderson, meet Connor von Friedenberg, Crown Prince of Beldovia.”

 

The photo is one of those formal pictures that royal houses always loved releasing to the press. Stilted, posed, and in some sort of uniform, the people in those photos always looked vaguely annoyed, no matter how wide they faked their smiles. Hank had always found the pictures to be ridiculous because trying to sell the age-old image that these people were better at leading a country thanks to birthright and not to, you know, actual skill, was an ancient and vastly outdated concept.

 

Prince Connor is all of those things in the photo—posed, stiff, a slight frown on his face—but Hank isn't dead enough on the inside to not appreciate the expertly fitted uniform accentuating what looks like a lean and finely tuned body. And his face is...something. Not hot exactly. A little softer but more _compelling_ than the usual clean cut good looks that everyone seems to fawn over. There's something in the sharp angle of his jaw that balances out the fullness of his lips and sends a hot curl of desire through Hank's poor deprived system and fuck, he needs to get out more if a fucking _photo_ is getting him twisted into knots.

 

“So, what do you think?”

 

Hank shrugs, trying to look like he is, in fact, not ogling the picture on her phone like some horny old pervert. “Not bad.”

 

“Not bad? Not _bad_?” North cackles and gives Hank's arm an affectionate shove. “He's a fucking pretty boy and you know it.”

 

He hands her back the phone, doing his damn best to keep his expression neutral. “Not saying he's not easy on the eyes. Just won't do me any good to be checking him out when I'm trying to get all the dirt I can on his wedding.” Probably wouldn't be too happy to have an old, washed-up journalist with a drinking problem ogling him either. People who look like the Crown Prince have a vastly different playing field than people who look like Hank. He's not even sure he would register as a person on Prince Connor's radar. More like a faceless being in a crowd of faceless beings, all at his beck and call.

 

North checks her phone and grimaces. “Shit, I didn't realize what time it is. Still gotta do some wrapping and then figure out a way to fit it all in my bag.”

 

“Have fun with your family,” Hank offers as she grabs her helmet and is rewarded with brief scowl. “Try not to murder anyone.”

 

“As long as they don't ask me any personal questions it should be fine. Besides, I'm kind of looking forward to meeting my sister's new boyfriend. I can't wait to tell him what I'm gonna do with his balls if he makes her cry.”

 

“You sure you don't want to trade? I could deal with your family if you go write this shitty article for me.”

 

“And miss hearing about your adventures?” North looks at him for a moment, then smiles. “You're gonna do fine, Anderson. And keep in touch, okay? Let me know how shadowing that sexy princely ass goes.”

 

She gives his arm a friendly punch (because 'bro punch to the arm' is a level of affection that they can manage without cringing) before sliding on her helmet and makes her way back to her bike. It's only when she roars out of sight that he allows his shoulders to sag and the anxiety to settle more comfortably into the pit of his stomach. Making his way back to his car, he sits for a minute as the car warms up and stares at the mound of folders on the seat next to him. Inside those folders are going to be intimate reports on this von Friedenberg family, as well as photos. Lots and lots of photos.

 

He doesn't want to think about why a single photo of some random beanpole (even a ridiculously pretty one) has set him off because that would require thinking about his sad, pathetic life and he's already got enough problems with self-image as it is, thanks all the same. But he does come to the conclusion that he will probably need some new clothes if he's going to be spending the next two weeks in a _palace,_ because most of his clothes have seen better days and will do him no good if he's supposed to blend in. And really, what better way to top off an already spectacularly shitty day than by hitting up a mall during the Christmas rush?

 

Hank drops his head onto the steering wheel. _Fuck my life._

 

_\- - -_

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

\- - -

 

_December 19, 2018_

 

“ _Good morning ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for your patience. This is an announcement for Beldovian Airlines Flight 325 with service to Klineberg. We have just received word that the weather in Beldovia has finally settled down, so we will start boarding the plane momentarily. Please remain seated until your seat row is called._ ”

 

Hank scrubs a tired hand over his equally tired face and sighs. _Fucking finally_ , he thinks, readjusting his position for the millionth time before his legs go numb. The flight had only been delayed by two hours but his previous flight had landed five hours ago and the airport was starting to feel claustrophobic. It probably didn't help that he'd only managed a couple hours of sleep since that fateful morning in Fowler's office and he was literally running on caffeine fumes and the remnants of airplane food and a pastry he'd picked up in an airport cafe.

 

It's also didn't help that he'd spent the last forty-eight hours cramming every bit of information about the von Friedenberg family he could into his exhausted brain, taking a break only to rehearse his cover-up story like a mantra.

 

_My name is Hank Anderson. I was, up until a month ago, a highly regarded teacher at an elite private school outside of Detroit, but I wanted a change of scenery so I applied to private teaching jobs because I like to work one-on-one with kids. I'm applying for the position of private tutor to Alice von Friedenberg and I will stay until here until December 30 th to see how I like the country and the student and to see if I'm the right fit for your family. I also can't fucking bow for the life of me._

 

Which, thank God, had not become the issue he had worried it would be. Amid the hundreds of papers and articles that Jeffrey had dumped on him there had been a few pamphlets on Beldovian etiquette and rules for meeting the royal family, including notes that someone had helpfully added in the margins (they'd obviously come from Reed because Hank would recognize that particular chicken scratch anywhere). He'd learned that he wouldn't have to bow like a medieval serf to greet the royal family, when he finally met them—a bow of the head would do, no prostrating himself at someone's feet required. He also learned that the Crown Prince had to be addressed as 'Your Royal Highness' and his siblings more simply as 'Your Highness', which was going to be really strange to work into his everyday conversation, but he can only hope it will get easier with practice.

 

At least he got to keep his name in this whole fucking nightmare. Fowler had been cagey when Hank had asked just _how_ a relatively small newspaper outlet had wangled some kind of top-secret clearance to get behind the scenes of the royal family, shrugging off Hank's questions with a simple “I have my sources”. Which answered absolutely nothing and left even more questions, like how the hell did this miraculous source manage to get Hank vetted by palace security without them checking too far into his background? His name wasn't unique but a quick search online would definitely pull up some of his articles (although he'd steadfastly avoided having his photograph taken over the years—not just at The Post, but for all his other jobs too—so pictures of him should be few and far between).

 

The only logical answer was that the source had to be someone close to the royal family, someone who had enough authority to override any security concerns that might arise by having this stranger show up in their midst. An insider who had gone against the official royal decree of 'No Journalists Allowed Until The Day Of The Wedding' (which Hank found weird in itself because usually royal weddings were all about good press), and wangled a way in for a lone reporter to sneak into the country.

 

Knowing that he's going to be the only foreign journalist in the country for the next week and a half is a gift that any self-respecting reporter would kill for, no matter how pissed he still is about the damn thing. To be the first one on the scene, to get firsthand details about an event that millions of people around the world were dying to read about—well, Hank's finally ready to forgive Jeff for being so fucking bullheaded about getting him to take the job. No matter what direction the article ends up going, it's going to sell, guaranteed.

 

Hank absently rubs at a twitch near his eye, fighting the early pangs of a headache starting in his temple. _Beldovia and The Detroit Connection_ sits open on his lap and he debates sliding his reading glasses back on to his nose and attempting to get through another chapter but his brain and his eyes are screaming at him to quit. It's a painfully dry read but he'd had a lot of time to kill back in Detroit Airport (Fowler really hadn't taken any chances and had dropped him off exactly three fucking hours before his departure) and he'd seen it in the bookstore and figured it might help his research.

 

The girl who had rung him up had taken one look at the cover and practically melted. “Isn't it _so_ romantic? A regular girl from Detroit meets a prince and falls in love and gets to become a princess. _And_ her son is marrying another American too!” She'd giggled. “Gives hope for the rest of us.”

 

Queen Caroline von Friedenberg had not been just another average girl. She had come from serious money, which was why she got to meet her future husband in the first place (Hank had read an article about that particular charity ball and the ticket prices alone had been well above his pay grade). And the Crown Prince's darling new fiancee was even wealthier, having spent most of her life in international boarding schools and in private villas around the world, and had probably never heard the word 'average' in her life.

 

But the girl looked to be about eighteen and Hank wasn't in the mood to crush her daydreams, so he'd feigned a smile, handed over the money and even wished her a Merry Christmas.

 

“ _This is a boarding announcement for Beldovian Airlines Flight 325 with service to Klineberg. We ask passengers who need extra assistance boarding or who are traveling with small children to now board the plane.”_

 

There is a sudden mad scramble as the passengers who are allowed to board rush to the gate. A young boy starts screaming as his frazzled mother hauls him up into her arms and his piercing shrieks do absolutely nothing to help the ache that's starting to creep behind Hank's forehead.

He sinks down into his chair and closes his eyes and tries his best not to think about being crammed into a tiny seat for another two torturous hours.

 

“Excuse me, is there someone sitting here?”

 

Hank cracks one eye open and sees an old woman with a mop of silver curls pointing at the obviously empty seat beside him.

 

“Nope,” he says, fighting the urge to add ' _are you blind?_ '. “Be my guest.”

 

The woman hums in approval, dumping her bright pink suitcase by his legs and nearly crushing his duffel bag in the process. “Thank you. I've been waiting in that cafe over there for ages and I just couldn't take it anymore. I feel like the closer I get to the gate, the closer I am to getting on the plane.”

 

_If you feel like that, why were you sitting in the cafe all this time?_ Hank thinks acidly but he fights to keep his expression blank and merely nods.

 

She sits down and shoves her elbow onto the armrest and Hank has to shift over in his already tiny seat because fuck if he's gonna fight some eighty-year old British woman for arm space, no matter how pushy she might be. “I'm just so happy we're finally boarding. I've been waiting for over an hour now and those gate attendants were so rude when I asked how much longer it would be. Honestly, they acted like I was demanding to see the Prince himself.”

 

Hank makes some non-committal noise. Needing an escape, he picks up his book, shoves the glasses down on his nose and does his best to look like a Serious Reader and not someone who is rereading the same five lines just to get out of a conversation.

 

Grandma, apparently, is not deterred. “My poor daughter has been beside herself, waiting to see when we'll finally depart and I kept having to text her that I didn't know anything. You'd think they would at least give us regular updates instead of leaving us all in the dark like this.” They had been pretty good with the updates actually, which Grandma would have known if she'd been here for the last fucking five hours. “Well,” Grandma continues with a sniff, “at least we should be on our way shortly. Is this going to be your first time in Beldovia?”

 

It takes a moment for Hank to realize she's asking him a question and not ranting about the poor service. He hazards a glance at his seatmate and finds her beady-eyed stare fixed squarely on him, like's she preparing to dissect his every word. “Uh, yeah. First time.”

 

“I'm sure you'll love it! Klineberg is a lovely city this time of year. All the shops decorate for the holidays and you simply can't miss the Christmas market. Oh and you _must_ attend the Gingerbread House competition on the twenty-third at the bakery. It really is delightful.”

 

There are a million other things Hank would rather be doing than attending a competition for gingerbread houses, including getting eaten by wild dogs. “Thanks for the suggestions.”

 

“ _This is a boarding announcement for Beldovian Airlines Flight 325 with service to Klineberg. We now invite our Crown Member passengers to begin boarding. If you are not a Crown Member, please stand back and allow other passengers through. You will be boarded momentarily.”_

 

There is little hope that Grandma is flying first class, but Hank holds his breath anyway because maybe there is such a thing as Christmas miracles. For a split second, he thinks his wish might have even come true as Grandma shifts in her seat, but she only moves to reposition her legs.

 

“You seem quite interested in that book. Is it a good read?”

 

Well, that fucking did it. He probably could have held the headache off until he landed but Grandma was apparently bound and determined to ensure he wasn't allowed the luxury. With an internal sigh (and a mental note to pop some painkillers the minute he's on the plane because Grandma would definitely have something to say about him popping pills in public), he closes his book and flashes her the title. “It's all right. Just trying to brush up on some history.”

 

The woman claps—actually fucking claps—in excitement. “A fellow fan of the von Friedenbergs! I've followed their family for years, particularly since my daughter moved down there to be with her husband. Such a lovely family and so good to their country. Do you know that the Crown Prince himself is the judge for the Gingerbread competition I mentioned? Most monarchs wouldn't dare to be seen mingling with the public, but not the von Friedenbergs. Oh no, they are always helping with charities and events. They even shop in town! And my daughter told me the Crown Prince's wedding will be open to the Beldovians, although tourists won't be allowed. Which is such a shame, as I would dearly love to be apart of such a wonderful event.”

 

“Hope they have a church to fit all those people,” Hank says offhandedly as a more desperate voice in his head screams ' _come on, let's get the fuck on with the boarding so I can get out of here'._ He absolutely refuses to think about the possibility that Grandma might actually be sitting next to him on the flight. She doesn't strike him as a 'back of the plane' kind of person, which is where Hank always plants himself (always a better chance of getting a row to yourself in the back and away from fucking nosy people trying to pry into your life because they've decided there's nothing good to watch on the TV screen). Fate has made him suffer some awful things. Surely it would take pity on him today.

 

“Klineberg Cathedral may not be as large as some of the great European churches but it is grand in its own way.” Grandma inches closer and her voice drops low. “You know, there have been some...unfortunate rumours going around. About the wedding and such.”

 

Hank takes off his reading glasses and makes a show of cleaning them with the edge of his shirt, trying not to look like he might actually care (he really, _really_ doesn't but Grandma seems like the type of shark who goes into a frenzy at the faintest whiff of perceived interest). “Oh yeah? What kind of rumours?”

 

She scoots close enough to press her arm against Hank's and he is nearly suffocated by her heavy, floral perfume. “Well, I'm not one to gossip about unseemly things, and surely the rumours are just that—silly old rumours—but some are saying that the Crown Prince is only marrying this American woman because he must.”

 

There's a stubborn smudge at the edge of the lens. Hank rubs harder, trying not to make the smear worse. _Don't make eye contact, don't make eye contact, don't make_ —

 

“In fact, I've even heard that the Crown Prince is only marrying her as a cover for his true life.” Grandma's whispering now and Hank leans just a little bit closer because what the hell? A little gossip never hurt, not that she needs to know that. “He's never been photographed with women, you see. Not that he doesn't socialize with women of course—he is said to be good friends with the Swedish princess—but he's never been romantically attached to a woman before now.”

 

_Maybe he has but he's just been fucking good at hiding it_ , Hank wants to point out. _Being a prince does give you some power over annoying things like paparazzi_. “So what you're saying is he doesn't like women?” Hank asks before he can stop himself because the headache is now throbbing at his temples and his filter is fading fast.

 

Grandma's lip purse. “I'm certainly not _stating_ anything. After all, it's not like I know the family personally. No, I've simply heard the suggestion that the Crown Prince of Beldovia might be—” she glances around quickly and leans in close enough for Hank to smell the stale coffee on her breath “—a _homosexual_.”

 

Hank wants to _laugh_. Holy shit does he want to laugh. He wants to bend over and laugh until his sides fucking _ache_ and then tell Grandma 'big whoop, I've slept with men _and_ women', and watch with satisfaction while her prim and proper face crumples into absolute horror.

 

But he can't bring himself to do it. Even though he wants to be a jackass, he can't be a jackass to an ignorant old woman who grew up in a time when men married women and things like being attracted to the same sex were considered a choice and a punishable crime. So he steels his expression, pretends to wipe one last smudge off of his spotless glasses, and opens his mouth to blurt out some inane comment when finally, _finally_ the attendants answer his fucking prayers.

 

“ _This is a boarding announcement for Beldovian Airlines Flight 325 with service to Klineberg. We are now boarding rows 13 to 35. Would passengers sitting in these rows please make their way to the gate.”_

 

“It's about time” Grandma sighs and stands up. “It was very nice meeting you...?”

 

Hank sticks out a hand, suddenly feeling charitable because she's not be going to be anywhere close to him on the plane (even if she happens to walk by, he'll fake sleep or death if need be). “Hank.”

 

Her hand is cold and clammy as she takes his and gives it a small shake. “I'm Rosemary. Have a nice flight. And I do hope you enjoy Beldovia.”

 

He watches her trundle away, hitting a few people in the shins with her unwieldy bag as she takes her place in line and then, and only then, does he let himself relax.

 

Rumours about the wedding and rumours about the political stability of the country and now rumours about the Crown Prince himself. So maybe this story was going to be interesting after all, as interesting as the fact that the Prince with the perfect jawline might actually prefer men. Hank's not stupid enough or delusional enough to think, for one _iota_ of a second, that Crown Prince Connor might be attracted to fat, scraggly, old men but it's still a fact that buries itself in his aching brain and stays there.

 

He feels sorry for the kid though. If he really is gay, then being the ruler of a kingdom that—last time Hank had checked—was still pretty backwards on modern issues like same-sex marriage must be nothing short of soul-sucking. Hopefully his beautiful bride (and she i _s_ beautiful, judging by the pictures in his files) is understanding. Hell, maybe they were both gaining something out of their partnership, if the rumours about her still seeing Elijah Kamski on the side were true.

 

Whatever the case, Hank gets to have a front row seat to the whole farce of a wedding. And maybe, just maybe, he won't be so bored after all.

 

\- - -

 

The first thing he notices about the air in Beldovia is that it's fresh. So fresh it hurts his lungs as he inhales. Between the clean mountain air and the painkillers he'd tossed back on the plane, the cobwebs that had been cluttering his brain have disappeared, leaving Hank free to think clearly for the first time in hours.

 

Which is a good thing because as of thirty minutes ago, he is now Hank Anderson, Teacher for Hire. His first test—meet the driver, introduce himself, try not to act as crusty as he feels after twenty odd hours of traveling—had gone well. The driver was professional and seemed unperturbed by the fact that Hank's flight had been two hours late. After a brief introduction, he had directed Hank to wait outside of the terminal while be brought round the car and Hank didn't mind the chance to get outside for the first time in fucking ages. It was cold, sure, but no worse than a typical Detroit winter day.

 

It's still surreal that he's here, halfway across the world, about to infiltrate a fucking _palace_ of all places. There are a lot of places in the world that Hank Anderson had never envisioned himself stepping foot into and an actual functioning palace is pretty much at the top of the list.

 

A sleek black car pulls up and the driver ushers him into the warmth of the car while he packs Hank's bags into the trunk. Hank looks around, notes the glossy wood panelling and the cushy leather seats and the fancy bottle of designer water in the cupholders and whistles under his breath. He's pretty sure his own car would just give up and die out of embarrassment if it came within a ten foot radius of this ride.

 

The roads are partly snow covered—probably from whatever storm had held their flight up—but the car has no trouble navigating the slippery roads. As they make their way along the edge of a rushing river, Hank finally takes the time to look out the window and gets a good, hard look at Beldovia under the darkening winter sky.

 

His first thought is that it's beautiful. Like stupidly beautiful. The houses that fly by are all neat and tidy, with wooden siding and white walls and pretty icicles hanging from the edges of darkly tiled roofs. Those houses would be nice enough on their own but when they're tucked by the edge of the river or at the base of a looming mountain or nestled in the dips of a snow drenched valley, they pretty much reach Christmas card levels of perfection.

 

Beldovia is a small country, which becomes evident as the winding road soon broadens and, in a matter of minutes, the mountains and valleys give way to the beginnings of a cozy town. The architecture is similar to the houses in the countryside, a mix of dark wood and stone and white stucco and probably all dating back to some medieval time. Everywhere there are twinkling lights and evergreen boughs and wreaths of holly—even the lampposts have big red ribbons wrapped around them. It all blends together in a harmonious clusterfuck of quaint Christmas cheer.

 

Hell, even the people here look like extras out of some Christmas movie. Everyone is dressed in stylish coats and coordinating hats and mittens and chic boots. Suddenly Hank is glad that he fought through a crowded mall two days ago to update his wardrobe. They probably wouldn't have let him in the country if he'd packed his old clothes.

 

They're stopped at a stoplight and Hank is watching a couple of kids building a snowman in their front yard when the driver suddenly clears his throat.

 

“We will soon be leaving the city. Is there anything you need to pick up, Mr. Anderson?”

 

“Uh, no. Should be good,” Hank fights the dumb urge to give him a thumbs up ( _seriously, what the hell, Anderson? You're supposed to be a teacher who's used to being around money, not acting like some yokel_ ). “Is this Klineberg?”

 

The driver meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. “It's a suburb of Klineberg, yes. The main square is a few minutes east of here. I would have taken you for a scenic tour but the main roads are closed today for the royal procession.”

 

“Royal procession? What's that?”

 

“The royal family rides into town to attend the candlelight carol service at the church.” The light turns green and the driver turns his eyes back to the road. “It is an old tradition dating back to the seventeenth century and it's followed by drinks and festivities at the Christmas market, which stays open late for the occasion. You've missed the procession and you'll miss most of the service, but you could visit the market later, if you like.”

 

It sounds like something he should attend if he wants to get started on this article, but Hank doesn't think Teacher Anderson would be gung-ho to meet his pupil at a midnight market on the day he lands.“Thanks for the suggestion. Probably gonna have to see just how bad the jet-lag hits me first.”

 

The driver inclines his head. “As you wish.”

 

The rest of the ride passes by peacefully (traffic doesn't seem to be a problem here, probably because the country's entire population was smaller than the average American town). The houses disappear again, replaced by forests and patches of snowy fields and Hank is starting to feel his eyes sliding shut when the car turns and there's suddenly a massive set of heavy wrought iron gates in his line of sight, swinging open to let the car through.

 

_Shit, this is getting real_. The sky is dark now, lending an almost sinister atmosphere to the entrance of what Hank assumes is his temporary home. He strains his neck, trying to get a good lay of the land, but all he can see are rolling stretches of snow and the occasional bush or tree.

 

The driveway seems to go on for-fucking-ever (it's not like he's just a little bit excited to see this castle up close, not at _all_ ) and he's just about to make a sarcastic remark to the driver about this drive taking longer than the drive from the airport when the palace finally comes into view through the windshield.

 

It's...big. Bigger than he'd expected even though he'd flipped his way through multiple pictures of the place back when he'd been sitting on his couch with his dog snoring at his feet. Somehow those photos didn't do justice to the huge wooden doors at the entrance, or the looming stone towers flanking either end of the sprawling, three-story wings that branch off from the main doors. Off to one side of the left wing is a raised terrace, hemmed in by low stone walls, that's probably big enough to host half the country. The palace would be austere, almost forbidding, if not for the welcoming lights shining warmly through the gracefully arched windows that dot every floor.

 

Thankfully they turn off from the road before they reach the main entrance and Hank is spared the embarrassment of staggering, travel-worn and stinking of airplane, into what he can only expect will be an equally stately hall. Instead, the driver drops him off by a more regular-sized side door just past the raised terrace. “Secretary Stern will be waiting for you in there. If you ever need a ride, just call me at my extension. The secretary will pass along my information.”

 

Mumbling a thanks, Hank grabs his bags and stumbles to the door. He raises his hand to knock and gets the shock of a lifetime when the door swings out from under his hand.

 

“Jesus,” he swears, heart pounding in his throat. “Sorry, I—”

 

“Mr. Hank Anderson?” There is a woman standing ramrod straight in the doorway and staring at him as if he's just crawled out of the gutter. “I've been expecting you.”

 

Hank squints, takes in her neatly braided hair and her dark skin and her tailored gray pantsuit and his brain helpfully catches up. _Secretary Amanda Stern. American but moved to Beldovia to become advisor to the late Queen. Currently acting as advisor to the Crown Prince and family_. He'd seen a few photos and outside of a tendency not to smile, she had seemed like a relatively normal human being.

 

In person though, she's terrifying. Her eyes are like stone, flinty and unyielding and her expression seems to only deepen further into disappointment when she finally gets a good look at him. “I trust your travels were smooth?”

 

Hank has to do his best not to squirm under her uncompromising stare. Has she blinked? He can't be sure. “Uh, pretty good, overall. Got held up in London for a few hours because of the snowstorm here but otherwise smooth sailing.”

 

“Good.” She steps back, allows him into the warmth of the foyer as though she is granting him some special boon. “My name is Amanda Stern. I am the advisor to His Royal Highness and I also oversee the household. I will be in charge of you for the duration of your stay. You may follow me.”

 

It's not a suggestion, it's a fucking order. He doesn't like the way she says 'duration of your stay' because even though her tone of voice hasn't faltered, she makes it sound like she's already sized him up and dismissed him. And even though being pissed off is a ridiculous reaction—because Hank is not, in fact, a legitimate teacher—he still feels offended that she's already written him off for the job (a job, he has to remind himself, he's not _actually_ qualified to have).

 

He grabs his bags ( _guess private tutors don't get valet service_ ) and follows her through a maze of hallways, trying hard to sneak a peek at every room they pass by. Most of the doors are closed, but through the few that are open, Hank manages to catch a glimpse of a small library and a cozy sitting room lit by a roaring fire. They march up a flight of stairs and Amanda leads him down a well-lit hallway and to a door marked 'The Green Room', before handing over a key.

 

“This will be your quarters while you are here. I have left a map of the castle and surrounding grounds as well as a tablet in your room that should provide all of the necessary information you need. Meal times for staff are listed on your tablet but there is a staff kitchen open twenty four hours a day, which is stocked with any necessary items you may need if you can't attend the dining service.” She straightens her shoulders. “I would stay to help acclimatize you to your new surroundings, but I must be leaving shortly to attend some events in the city. In light of your lengthy travels, I have informed our staff to bring you some dinner. As Her Highness is in the city tonight, I have arranged for you two to meet tomorrow morning. This should give you plenty of time to recover from your journey.” She raises a brow. “Any questions?”

 

“Nope, it all sounds good to me. Thanks, Mrs...” Hank reaches out a hand, a peace offering of sorts (although offering peace for _what_ exactly he has no idea because it's not like he's done anything but exist).

 

She ignores his offer. “You may call me Secretary Stern. Have a pleasant evening.”

 

Hank blinks and suddenly she's gone and he's left standing in the hallway, alone and tired and in need of a serious drink.

 

_Guess that answers the question if I'm heading out tonight_ , Hank thinks bitterly as he slides the key into the lock. She certainly wasn't rolling out the red carpet for Hank to join her—in fact, she'd all but told him to 'stay' like an obedient mutt. He has a feeling that when Secretary Stern said 'jump', everyone started fucking jumping like their lives depended on it.

 

He opens the door and the sight of his temporary lodgings nearly brings tears of relief to his eyes. There is a four poster bed to his left—a profusion of leaves carved into each post—with plush pillows and a richly embroidered bedspread that Hank is almost afraid to sit on (he's pretty sure that bedspread costs more than his entire bed back home). To his right, a sofa and chair are clustered around a roaring fire, and across from him, there is an antique desk and an elegant velvet chair tucked below a sweeping bay window. Everything is done in shades of forest green and golds and creams, which balances out the heavy wood furniture (and makes him feel like he should be setting out on a foxhunt or some other equivalent rich-person pastime).

 

As promised, the tablet and map are sitting on the desk. He wastes no time in getting the password to connect his phone back to the real world because he's been ignoring the damn thing since he left Detroit and figures he should probably check in with a few people before they start to worry.

 

Immediately his phone starts vibrating. He checks the screen and watches the number of messages creep upward. His neighbour, Traci, had been nice enough (or just assumed he would be too old to know better) to recommend a messaging app for his phone that wouldn't rack up thousands of dollars on roaming fees. She'd even made her girlfriend download it onto his phone while he had settled his dog into their place.

 

Traci has already sent him a photo and he can't help but smile when Sumo's sad, droopy face fills his screen. ' _He's doing okay, just missing his favourite person_ ' is written below. Hank sends back his heartfelt thanks because if it wasn't for them, Sumo would be pining away in some miserable kennel right now.

 

There are a few messages from colleagues. He ignores them all except for North's, only because she actually might be someone he wants to talk to during this whole ordeal. She's sent him a few messages, probably out of boredom. ' _Just arrived in NYC. Sister's boyfriend runs some bullshit hipster organic coffee business. Might have to kill him after all_ ' is followed by ' _hope the flights didn't suck_ ' and then ' _good luck with prince sex on legs_ '. Hank rolls his eyes at the last one and types out a brief 'made it here just fine, no prince in sight, don't kill the boyfriend not worth the jail time'.

 

Fowler's message is more direct. ' _You should be there by now. Send a picture so I know you didn't bail on this_ '. With a sigh, Hank snaps a quick picture of his room and hits send. That should keep Jeffrey quiet for now, until he starts wondering how the story's going. Hank figures he's got until Christmas before his boss starts getting antsy, which is plenty of time to get a few nuggets of information out of this place.

 

Hank plugs his phone in to charge then eyes his luggage. Unpacking is almost worse than packing, but he's pretty sure the minute he sits down somewhere comfortable, all of his remaining energy will go flying out the proverbial window. Which is why the maid finds him a little while later, surrounded by wrinkled shirts and pants and cursing under his breath at his idiocy of packing clothes that apparently can't handle being folded without turning into a hot mess.

 

She's young and innocent and trying very hard not to stare at the sad man standing in his ruin of a wardrobe. “Sir? I have your dinner.”

 

Hank rubs the back of his neck, trying to stop the embarrassed flush from creeping up to his face. “Sure, come on in.”

 

She hurries in to the room and deposits a tray on his desk. Hank takes note of her dark dress and white apron and starts to wonder if maybe this is all some fever dream brought on by lack of sleep, a fever dream where he's dumped into the middle of some Victorian period piece and left to suffer.

 

She pauses at the door, her eyes darting over the display of clothes once more. “Sir, we do offer a laundry service to direct employees of the royal family. I can take the things that need to be pressed and have them outside your door for tomorrow morning if need be.”

 

“Seriously? That's...that's great. Really great.” Hank could fucking kiss her right now. “There might be too much stuff for you to carry though.”

 

“Not to worry, there's a laundry bag in the wardrobe. I'll bring you some extra hangars too. It looks like you might need them.”

 

“I think you're my new favourite person,” Hank declares as he helps her to scoop up his various items of clothing and dumping them into a haphazard pile on the bed. “What's your name?”

 

“Sarah, sir.”

 

“You can drop the whole 'sir' thing. Just call me Hank.”

 

Sarah is smiling now as she grabs the bag from the wardrobe and dumps the entire pile of clothes into the bag in three big scoops. “Once you've finished dinner, you can leave the tray in the hallway—that way you won't be disturbed. Have a good night, sir.”

 

The door closes with a soft thud as she leaves. He stuffs the few pieces of clothing he had managed to salvage into the wardrobe then focuses on the much more fun and important task of finally eating a real fucking meal.

 

The fireplace looks like a perfect thing to watch while he eats and he lets out a hearty groan of relief as he sinks into the soft cushions of the sofa. God it felt _good_ to sit on an actual seat where he could stretch his legs out and not have his knees up around his eyeballs. _That's it_ , he decides as he digs into the savoury stew that the maid had left for him, _no more fucking airplanes for me_. If Jeffrey wants to send him on some other international wild goose chase, he's going to have to guarantee first class tickets (which might not be an unreasonable demand if this soap opera of a story sells as well as the publisher hopes).

 

The stew is flavourful and the slices of bread scream 'fresh from the oven' and the small bottle of wine provides a single decent glass. It's nothing fancy but it warms his insides and it isn't long after he's finished eating that Hank is fighting to keep his eyes open.

 

It's been years since he's felt the pull of jet-lag, felt the fog of exhaustion settle over him until he's underwater and everything is suddenly a million miles away. He ditches the idea of a shower—hell, he barely manages to put the dinner tray into the hallway without falling over—and strips down to his undershirt and boxers before giving in to the sweet temptation of falling into that massive, comfortable bed.

 

The fire burns low and casts a muted light across the room as Hank burrows under the covers. Maybe it's the atmosphere of this place or the overload of Christmas quaintness he'd experienced on the drive here or maybe it was seeing all the kids out with their families and friends, frolicking in the snow. Whatever it is, a stray thought enters his mind just as he drifts off to sleep, a thought that he would normally shut down and stomp on and bury because if he didn't, that weight in his chest would twist and tighten and clamp down on his heart in a painful, brutal vise.

 

But even in his jet-lag induced haze, even as the tug of sleep starts pulling him down, Hank still acknowledges the truth of it.

 

_Cole would have loved it here._

 

\- - -

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the kudos and for the lovely comments! I'm so sorry I haven't been able to reply to the comments (it's a crazy time of year) but please know that I appreciate each and every one! 
> 
> Any mistakes or errors are entirely my fault (and the lingering flu that I can't shake). And don't worry, Connor will be making an appearance soon...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so sorry I haven't been able to reply to all the lovely comments. Just know that each and everyone of you have given me something to smile about during a crazy time! And thanks to those of you reading and leaving kudos too! All of you are the reason why I'm trying to write whenever I can--not sure which brain cells convinced me that writing a fic during the busiest time of year was a good idea, but here we are. 
> 
> I will do my best to give you guys some steady updates but for now, enjoy Chapter 3 :)

\- - -

 

_December 20, 2018_

 

It's the curse of jet-lag that has Hank waking up to a dark room and, after a glance out the window, an equally inky sky. Muffling a curse into his pillow, he burrows further under the duvet, screwing his eyes shut and doing everything in his power to will his body back to sleep.

 

He stays like that for a few minutes, flips onto his other side, repositions the pillow, and tries again. But sleep, for whatever godforsaken reason, just won't come and finally, with a sigh, he flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling in defeat.

 

It's not like he can complain. He's feeling better rested than he has in a long time ( _too long_ ), probably because he hadn't fallen asleep last night so much as passed out in sheer exhaustion. Still, he had slept like the dead, the first uninterrupted sleep—without the aid of alcohol—he's had in months.

 

He reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp. The stray thought that had snuck up on him last night still lingers in his mind and Hank pokes and prods it, testing out the level of hurt it's ready to give. The last three years have given him new life skills, one of them being a fantastic ability to compartmentalize his grief so that it only creeps up on him when he's alone. He's used to such thoughts sneaking up on him but they usually follow a few stiff drinks and he's usually prepared with a drink or two more to soften their blow.

 

Last night though, the thought hadn't caused the same turbulent pain it usually did. It had simply sat there in his head, sad and simple and true. Usually the thought of Cole was enough to crumple him into a ball of aching sorrow but this time it's not quite as devastating. Somehow the ache in his chest (always and forever there) is still settled, tempered by the truth that yeah, Cole would have loved staying in a castle in the mountains. Any kid would.

 

Maybe it's the change of scenery. He'd left New York soon after the accident but Detroit was still a familiar place, still had memories of his own miserable childhood. The devastating loss of Cole combined with his own, not-so-happy memories of his hometown had melded into the seething pile of shit that Hank waded through every day. But here, it's different. This place is new and fresh and—when Hank ignores the reason why he's _actually_ here—like a new start. Or, at the very least, a vacation from his fucked up life. And for once, he thinks, he might actually try to enjoy it.

 

The shower is calling his name and he emerges from the bathroom feeling like a new man. He even trims his beard, leaving his hair to dry as is because there is absolutely no point styling it at ass o'clock in the morning. He has plenty of time before he's introduced to his future pupil anyway (he swallows hard at the thought that he's going to have to deceive a kid but she's a princess who's waited on hand and foot so he reasons that she's probably used to people coming and going in her life).

 

A telltale grumble from his stomach gives him no choice as what to do next. His clothing options are few and a cursory glance outside his door shows only an empty hallway and no sign of his laundry, so he settles on hiding an only slightly wrinkled blue button down under a more presentable gray sweater and his nicest dark jeans. Too casual for a damn castle probably, but it's barely five in the morning. If there's anyone roaming the halls at this hour, then they're probably not dressed up either and can't judge.

 

Grabbing the map, he does his best to look for any familiar landmarks. The place is fucking huge, bigger than he'd even realized as they drove by. The entrance had made the building look rectangular, logically planned out, but the map reveals that his first impression was _way_ off base. Behind the rectangular shape is a literal rabbit warren of smaller buildings, all connected by a labyrinth of hallways. There's even a large round tower or something attached to the very back and Hank can only wonder what the hell is in there.

 

Luckily, someone (probably Secretary Stern because he's pretty sure 'Efficient' is her middle name) had marked a helpful 'x' on his room and had labeled the staff kitchen and dining room in clean, block letters. It shouldn't be too complicated, provided he takes a right rather than a left at the bottom of the stairs.

 

He stuffs the map into his back pocket but leaves his phone—doesn't need the distraction—because he's not starting to work right now, not when the sky is still pitch black. There's going to be a lot of time to kill between now and meeting Her Little Highness. He figures he can get started then.

 

There is a stillness when he emerges into the well-lit hallway that settles over him and makes him wary of making too much noise. It's hard to tell if there's anyone else living in this part of the castle but as he locks the door and shuffles quietly along the thick carpet, he doesn't want to take any chances at waking someone up. He has a rule about pissing people off before the sun rises.

 

He creeps down the stairs and heads right down another hallway bathed in warm lamplight ( _their electricity bill must be sky high_ ) and he follows it faithfully as it curves and turns until a large wooden door appears before him, a sign with the words 'Staff Kitchen' carved in elegant cursive hanging from a peg on the door.

 

Giving himself a mental pat on the back for not getting fucking lost (no GPS needed for this old man), Hank opens the door and is greeted by the sight of a large modern kitchen and of the first human being he's seen since last night.

 

They've got their back to him, bent over the counter, fussing with some device half-hidden in front of them. Hank tries not to be a total creep as he gives the stranger a once over but he can't help feel a sliver of appreciation for the person's well-fitted black jeans and snug burgundy sweater. Some distant part of his brain is starting to speak up, trying to flag him down, something about how 'long legs' and 'lean torso' are words that should be super important right now because they are words that, up until a few days, Hank hasn't thought of much. But there's a reason that part of his brain is far away and Hank ignores it, just as he always does before his caffeine levels reach their optimum level.

 

He debates whether to turn around and leave, maybe scope out a few rooms, find that little library he'd glimpsed last night, and leave this stranger to...whatever it is they're doing. His hand is on the doorknob and he's about to turn around when the stranger mutters something under their breath, the device beeps, and Hank's stomach chooses this precise, exact moment to let itself be heard.

 

_Well fuck me then_ , Hank thinks.

 

The stranger tenses and there is an awkward pause where Hank seriously considers just turning tail and fucking running. But just as he's starting to back up, the stranger turns and Hank's mouth falls open and their eyes meet in horrified surprise, like aliens from separate planets meeting for the first time.

 

_You have got to be_ fucking _kidding me._

 

Hank knows he's staring—pretty sure his face is frozen in slack-jawed disbelief—as he adds a few unnecessary details to his previous thought of 'nice body'. There's pale skin and that distinct jawline, just like the photo, and those full lips, slightly parted in shock. His brown hair is cut short and neatly styled except for a distinct curl that falls rebelliously over his forehead. A terrible, terrible part of Hank is suddenly desperate to reach out and put it back into place.

 

Crown Prince Connor von Friedenberg blinks. “Good morning?” His voice rises—it almost squeaks— and the relief that floods his system at hearing the Prince's own discomfort snaps Hank out of his funk.

 

“Uh, yeah, good morning. I guess?” _Well shit, let's sign Hank Anderson up for wordsmith of the year_. Hank swallows hard, fights the panic as he tries to remember how he's supposed to behave in front of royalty and not come off like a complete ass. “Shit, sorry, didn't realize people would be awake right now. I wasn't expecting to run in to anybody.” And now he's gone a dropped a fucking swear word in there too. Great. Just fucking great. “Look, I didn't mean to sneak up you or anything. I'm just gonna head on out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”

 

“Are you the American teacher? The one who's applying to teach my sister?”

 

The Prince's hesitant question stops Hank's cowardly retreat before he even has time to sneak a foot out the door. “Um, yeah. That's me.”

 

There is another awkward pause and it takes Hank a full fucking minute to realize why. “Oh yeah, probably would be a good thing if I actually introduced myself, right?” His laugh is strained and holy shit, the flush that's creeping on his neck is burning hot right now. “Hank Anderson.”

 

If Hank didn't know any better, he could swear the Prince's lips twitch. “It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Anderson.”

 

Then the Prince moves closer and holds out a hand and Hank's pretty sure his mind just fried on the spot because he doesn't remember anything about shaking hands with the royal family. Is he even allowed to shake hands? To touch a member of the royal family? This feels like an important question that he should know the answer to.

 

The silence is getting awkward _again_ so before he has time to overthink it, Hank grabs the Prince's hand and it gives it a quick shake (and ignores the fact that he can now add 'smooth palm and cool fingers' to Hank's List of Vaguely Inappropriate Crown Prince Knowledge). “Huh. Yeah, uh, nice to meet you too?”

 

“Connor,” the Prince says calmly, as if he always gives out his personal name to any old servant or peasant or scumbag who walks in on him at five in the morning. “My name is Connor.”

 

Yep, not a name Hank is going to ever feel comfortable using. And this whole meeting has been a fuck-up from the start, so throwing in a 'Your Highness' just feels weird right now. He's just gonna have to call the Crown Prince nothing at all for now.

 

The machine that the Prince—no, _Connor_ , it's easier to use in his head—had been fussing over beeps again and Hank finally stops squirming under the steady gaze of those chocolate-brown eyes and sniffs the air.

 

“Is that...coffee?”

 

Connor nods politely. “It's a dark roast. I hope you don't mind.”

 

Mind? This kid is the Crown Prince of the country. He could have brewed a strong pot of swamp water and Hank would have choked it down with a smile. “Of course not. A strong cup of coffee is the reason I came down here. Unless you want the pot to yourself. I can always make another one.”

 

“There's plenty of coffee for two people,” Connor assures him, his expression carefully detached. “I'll find you a mug if you would be so kind as to get the cream from the fridge?”

 

Hank can't help the quirk of his lips at how stupidly polite the request is because he's pretty sure Connor could have just ordered it and it would have to be done. _That's probably what thirty odd years of royal school teaches you_ , Hank muses as he hunts around in the fridge for the carton labeled 'cream'.

 

By the time he's found the cream—it's in a fancy glass bottle of all things—Connor has set two mugs down on the island in the middle of the kitchen and is putting a spoonful of sugar into his coffee.

 

Hank moves to stand along the opposite side of the island because some long-dead instinct for self-preservation is suddenly roaring to life and he needs to set distance between him and the attractive man who just made him coffee. “Here you go. Probably fresh from the cow, by the looks of it.”

 

“We do our best to buy local,” Connor says as he pours a generous amount of cream into his mug and stirs. “Luckily, cows are something we have in abundance.”

 

Hank squints. Was that—was that funny? Fuck, with that poker face, it's impossible to tell.

 

He shakes it off—he's pretty sure this is all going to turn out to be some kind of jet-lag induced dream—sips his coffee and the sweet hit of caffeine jolting his system almost makes him moan.

 

“You prefer your coffee black?”

 

“Only if I'm up before sunrise.” He takes another gulp, ignores the burn as it slides down his throat. He's surprised Connor hasn't high-tailed it out of here, now that their coffee is poured and ready to go. _He's probably got a million better things to be doing right now_ , Hank wonders but he holds his tongue on the subject. Connor is a Prince. He can pretty much do whatever the fuck he wants. And if he for some ungodly reason wants to hang around the kitchen while Hank drinks his coffee, then there's not much Hank can say about it.

 

The fact that Hank, too, can leave the kitchen is not a thought he entertains because he really wants to eat something but there's no way he's chowing down on toast in front of a Prince.

 

“Is it suitable?”

 

Connor is watching him carefully, his own mug untouched in his hands.

 

“The coffee? Hell yeah. You know your stuff.” It's amazing how even a splash of caffeine can do wonders for the brain and it dawns on Hank that this...this private meeting they're having is probably never going to happen again. In a few hours, the sun will come up and Connor is going to go back to being a Crown Prince and Hank is going to be a lowly potential employee. If ever there was time to let loose and be himself (within reason), now's the chance. “Hey, I hope you don't mind me asking, but why are you in the staff kitchen and not somewhere more...fancy?”

 

“The official palace kitchens are off-limits to anyone not on the cooking staff,” Connor says. “Our head chef doesn't appreciate other people using his equipment. So I come here if I need something. The staff don't seem to mind.”

 

“Can't you keep a coffee machine in your room?”

 

“My room is in the west wing and the wiring is touchy. My brother once caused a minor electrical fire by plugging in a kettle and his phone at the same time.” Connor takes a careful sip of his coffee. “There's been a ban on certain electronics ever since.”

 

“The west wing?” Hank frowns. He could have sworn _he_ was staying in the west wing. He slides the map out from his pocket and spreads it out on the counter. “So where are we exactly?”

 

Connor leans over the counter and points to a group of rectangles and squares clustered around the 'Staff Kitchen'. “We're in the southeast wing. This kitchen is in one of the newer additions to the palace so you don't have to worry about the wiring in here.”

 

“Good to know I won't blow this place up if I decide to use a toaster,” Hank remarks and is rewarded by another mysterious twitch of Connor's lip. “But what about my room?”

 

“That's in the east wing. It was updated a few years ago but some rooms are still testy. You should be safe, provided you only keep a few things plugged in. That's why you don't have a TV in your room, in case you were wondering. I hope it's not a problem.”

 

Hank shrugs. “Nah, not a big deal. As long as my laptop doesn't set off any fire alarms, I should be good.” He has to admit, he's kind of enjoying...this. Whatever _this_ is. In spite of his almost robotic face, Connor is weirdly easy to talk to and Hank doesn't want to let him go just yet (because it's been a while since he's been in the company of someone so fucking pretty and the sad, old man part of him doesn't want this singular moment to end). “Actually, if you don't mind, I could use some help figuring out what some of these rooms are. Don't wanna stumble into your dungeon or secret spy room or something.” Hank pauses. “If you've got the time, of course. Wouldn't want to keep you from business.”

 

Connor arches a brow and it's the first sign of emotion that he's shown since Hank's stomach interrupted his peaceful morning. “It's currently five thirty in the morning. I'm sure whoever has business for me is not yet awake to tell me about it.”

 

Huh, pretty _and_ sarcastic. Hank has to hide a grin in his coffee mug.

 

Connor steps away briefly, rummages around in a drawer, and returns to the counter with a pen in hand. “Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to know about?”

 

“Yeah, actually. When I first got here—think we came through those doors there?—I think I saw a little library off to one side. Wouldn't mind finding it again.”

 

Connor's head drops to study the map but not before Hank sees his expression stiffen. Strange. “That would be the Garden Library.” He scratches out the words on a small square in tidy, cursive letters. “ If you are interested, this large room over here is the Palace Library. You are welcome to borrow a book from either place, if you wish.”

 

As if Hank was going to trust himself with handling the ancient and rare books that places like this usually kept in stock. He'd probably spill coffee on an original copy of The Odyssey or something and get thrown in jail for ruining an ancient artifact. “Thanks, appreciate it.”

 

“Seeing as you might become her teacher, you should know where my sister lives. She's in the east wing, on the other side of the Grand Hall. These rooms here make up her apartment.” He carefully writes 'Alice' over a block of three rooms and then starts scanning the map, tapping the pen absently against his lip. He starts filling out the names of various rooms, somber face focused, like he's filling out a crossword puzzle or something equally as serious. His voice has a strange melody to it as he explains each room—it's not exactly high-pitched but nowhere near deep—and there's practically no trace of an accent. It is also a lot fucking easier to listen to than it should be.

 

Hank knows he should be paying attention to what Connor's saying but fuck if he isn't distracted by the realization that Connor's pale skin is dusted with freckles and that there's a freckle near his third knuckle that Hank can't seem to stop staring at.

 

As Connor is starting to label to the second floor of the west wing (and Hank his trying his damnedest to act like he's not completely fascinated by Connor's hands), the sound of voices drift into the kitchen and they both jump at the sudden noises now filling up the hallway.

 

Hank shakes his head, trying to snap himself back to some semblance of reality, takes a quick peek around the room and realizes with a start that sunlight is starting to seep into the kitchen and the clock on the oven is now showing 6:45. “Jeez, didn't realize the time. Guess people here are early risers.”

 

Connor frowns. “That would be the daytime staff. Only a few key staff members actually live in the palace. The rest commute in from the city or from nearby residences.” He slides the pen over to Hank and picks up his own mug. “The map is a little more complete now. I hope this helps.”

 

“Yeah, it helps,” Hank says, wishing his voice didn't sound so gruff. “Thanks. Seriously, you've saved from me some kind of disaster.”

 

Connor pauses. “You're welcome, Mr. Anderson.”

 

_Jesus, why did he make it sound weird?_ “Please, it's just Hank. Mr. Anderson is just too, I dunno, formal, I guess?”

 

Again, Connor's mouth twitches (for like the third time, not that Hank is fucking counting or anything weird like that) and he seems to struggle to say something, then shakes his head and simply decides to smile.

 

The smile hits Hank like a slap to the face. Crown Prince Connor in the photos had been fucking gorgeous but genuinely amused Connor steals the breath from Hank's lungs and doesn't give it back. Hank thinks of the word 'beautiful' but somehow it doesn't do justice to the brightness that floods Connor's face, the slight crinkling at the edges of his warm brown eyes or the softness of those parted lips. Nothing can do justice to it—Hank could write pages and pages of meaningless words and still nothing would even come close.

 

“Unfortunately, formality is something you can't escape here,” Connor says laughingly. “But I will do my best to keep things casual when the time is appropriate.” He moves to the door, coffee mug in hand, and his last few simple words pretty much destroy Hank's already shocked system. “Have a good day, Hank.”

 

He needs a minute, after Connor leaves, to refocus and retool his thoughts until he's no longer sounding like a raving lunatic in his head ( _because what the fuck was that? Was does he mean about keeping shit 'casual when the time is appropriate'? Fuck, maybe he wants to hang out again? With you? No fucking way, Anderson, just no. Fucking. Way._ ). And then, because his brain is his worst enemy, a thought suddenly comes to him, a realization that he had almost come to an hour ago but had dismissed because he'd been to caught up in fawning over the Prince like some creep. It was the first sentence in the book How To Meet Royals 101, the very first thing you should ever, _ever_ do.

 

He never _bowed._

 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Hank groans into the empty room and buries his head into his hands.

 

\- - -

 

“I trust you slept well.”

 

Hank stares at Secretary Stern's back (and wonders if she's replaced her spine with a steel rod because it's not humanly possibly to walk that upright) as he follows her down yet another hallway. “Better than ever,” he tells her truthfully. “A bomb could have probably gone off and I would have snoozed right through it.

 

She throws a narrowed glance over her shoulder. “I know you are joking, Mr. Anderson, but please refrain from mentioning bombs when in the palace. Our security staff are on high alert with the impending arrival of our many important wedding guests. The wrong words might cause some alarm.”

 

Fuck, he's just on a roll today. And here he'd thought he'd manage to get his shit together after his crazy morning. “Noted. Although, I hope you don't me saying this, but it does seem awfully quiet here. Considering there's a royal wedding happening in nine days and all.”

 

“It was thought best to save the wedding events until after Christmas, so that guests could enjoy the holidays with their family and friends. The bride will arrive on the 26th and the rest of the guests are due to arrive on the 27th and 28th.”

 

He's glad that he's behind the Secretary because he has a hard time hiding his shock. “Wait, the bride isn't in the palace?”

 

Secretary Stern's shoulders seem to tighten. “She asked that she be allowed to spend this Christmas with her family, as this will be her last Christmas before she becomes a Princess and soon, a Queen. The Crown Prince was kind enough to allow her to stay in America until after the holidays.”

 

There's a lot to unpack in that statement ( _what kind of bride misses out on Christmas with her fiancee and arrives two days before her actual wedding?_ ) and for the first time since he's landed, Hank sniffs out the beginnings of a story. Secretary Stern is not going to be a good source of information—she'd probably have him thrown out of the country if he started asking the wrong questions—but he files the knowledge away for later. He'd eaten breakfast with a few of the staff, Sarah included, and they seemed chatty enough. Besides, the hired help always knew more than they let on. They would be the perfect place to start.

 

“We're here.” The secretary turns and gestures to a set of double doors painted white. “This is meant to be an informal meeting between you and your future pupil. The royal family and I feel that it would be better for Her Highness to get to know you first, to see if you are the right fit. She has had some health complications in the past and we don't want to cause her any more undue stress. I hope this suits you.”

 

He's pretty sure it's going to have to suit him, because Secretary Stern doesn't seem like she's asking so much as telling him how things are going to be. “I wouldn't want to make Her Highness uncomfortable in any way.”

 

“You should also be aware of the fact that you are the first candidate to be meeting Her Highness. She will be comparing all future candidates to how your visit goes, so I hope you do your best to make a good impression. ”

 

He might not want to stress the Princess out, but fuck if Secretary Stern isn't doing a number on him. Hank scratches his beard, wishing he could do a better job of calming the nerves fluttering in his stomach. At least his clothes had been waiting for him when got back from breakfast so his outfit is professional and crisp and just the armour he needs to remind himself that he is a grown fucking man who has interviewed senators and CEOs and police chiefs. Royalty is really no different and princess or not, she's just a little kid.

 

A little kid who he has to bond with and basically use to spy on her family and write a damning, tell-all article about her brother's wedding. _Not gonna be a problem, no problem at all_.

 

The Secretary leads him into a large living room that was obviously not designed for a little girl. The furniture is gilded and ostentatious and the paintings decorating the walls are all dark portraits of unsmiling people. The colour scheme is feminine (roses on the sofas and chairs and pink and mint green wallpaper and a pastel green carpet) but it screams 'fifty-year old cat lady' and not 'nine-year old girl'. If he hadn't seen the pyramid of stuffed animals in one corner, he would have never guessed a child lived here.

 

A petite woman with short blonde hair rises from one of the hideous floral couches and smiles at him. “Mr. Anderson? Hello, I'm Kara Archer, nanny to Her Highness.”

 

Her smile is genuine (it reaches her eyes) and her handshake is firm and Hank likes her almost immediately. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Archer.”

 

“It's Miss actually. But you can call me Kara. Everyone else does.”

 

“Then call me Hank.” They share another grin and Hank shifts the name 'Kara Archer' to second place on his Favourite People of Beldovia list.

 

Secretary Stern shifts her stare from Hank to Kara (he swears it softens when she does and he thinks that maybe Amanda Stern isn't made solely of ice and steel). “Perhaps it would be best if I left the two of you to talk?”

 

“That might be wise. Her Highness is feeling a little overwhelmed by everything and too many people might make things worse. Not just your arrival, Hank,” Kara assures him. “The wedding is going to be challenging for her too.”

 

“Understood.” The Secretary turns to him and the usual frostiness in her gaze is back. “Ms. Archer will be in charge while you're here. You will follow her rule and if she feels Her Highness has had enough, then she has every right to end this meeting. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Hank would have been pissed at the assumption he was going to make trouble if it wasn't already perfectly obvious that her concern was actually for the little Princess and had nothing to do with him. “Crystal.”

 

Kara waits until the door is closed before she gestures for him to sit down at the large antique table in the middle of the room. “Secretary Stern means well.”

 

Hank laughs. “She could get a confession out of a criminal just by looking at him.”

 

“It's not that Her Highness, Alice, doesn't like Amanda, it's just that she can be shy and Amanda can be...”

 

“Terrifying?” Hank offers.

 

“Intimidating,” Kara finishes firmly. “I just want Alice to get to know you first, without everyone pressuring her to decide what she thinks of you. She does better with small groups.”

 

“Where is she?” Hank glances around the room, notes the two closed doors, one on either side. “Hope I didn't scare her away already.”

 

“She's in her room. I thought it would be better if I met you first.”

 

“And suss me out to see if I even make the cut to meet her.” Kara frowns and Hank stops her protest with a wave of his hand. “I get it. Really. One hundred percent. Just because I was cleared by security to be here doesn't mean I'm the right guy to be her teacher. Kids are sensitive and the last thing she needs is exposure to some stuffy jerk who makes her feel like she's two feet tall.”

 

“You're right. Her last tutor was hired from recommendation alone and it turned out that he wasn't the right fit for her. This time, we're trying to do it right.”

 

“Well hopefully I haven't failed your tests yet,” Hank says with a forced smile. “I would hate to have come all this way only to miss out on meeting Her Highness.”

 

“So far you've done just fine.” Kara levels a shrewd gaze at him. “It's just...you're not really what I was expecting.”

 

_And here comes the lies_. “Huh, I get that a lot. Not all private school teachers are snobs. Heck, some of us are even fun. Just watch out for the ones in sweater vests—they're the worst.”

 

Apparently that was the right thing to say (Hank makes a mental apology to sweater vest-clad private school teachers everywhere for now turning the country of Beldovia against them), because Kara smiles again and any tension that was still in the room clears out. “I will keep that in mind.”

 

“So, do you have any questions for me?” Hank asks, because he wants to seem as open and approachable as possible (and not like the giant fucking liar he actually is).

 

Kara purses her lips. “We'll have plenty of time to talk. And I know Alice is anticipating your arrival, so I think it would be best if we get the initial meeting over with first. Does that work for you?”

 

“Whatever works for Her Highness, works for me,” Hank says with feeling. “Lead the way.”

 

The door to Alice's room is painted white with gold trim and for a brief second, Hank wants to cover it in stickers and pictures and a sign that has 'Alice' in fun, colourful letters (Cole's door had looked like that because that's how kids' doors should fucking look and not like something out of Architectural Digest). But his irritation fades when he enters a room that _finally_ suits a little girl.

 

The furniture is still ridiculously over-the-top but it's toned down by the unicorn bedspread and the fairy lights strung up along the canopy over the bed and the toys scattered over every surface. There are hand drawn pictures pinned up to the wall and clothes are tumbling out of the wardrobe in a haphazard heap. His respect for Kara grows, because he has a feeling she's responsible for making this austere, formal room into a haven for a little girl. Amanda Stern does not strike him as the type to allow clothes on the floor (neither does Connor for that matter but Hank banishes that particular thought to the far reaches of his mind).

 

The little girl in question is sitting with her back to them at a desk that's tucked in between two arched windows. Kara goes first, gesturing for him to follow behind her.

 

“Alice? There's someone here to meet you.”

 

The dark head turns and Princess Alice stares at him with wide-eyed suspicion.

 

Luckily, after his shitshow of a morning, Hank had spent a good hour repeating 'you have to fucking _bow_ ' in his head until he's pretty sure it's cemented into his everyday actions (he's pretty sure he's going to start bowing to the fucking gardener if he's not careful but hell, better to overdo it). So when he inclines his head and bends slightly at the waist, arms rigid at his sides, he doesn't feel like total tool, just half of one. “Hello, Your Highness. My name is Hank.”

 

Alice continues to stare at him. Her eyes are dark—a darker brown than her brother's, not that he should be thinking about that or why he has firsthand knowledge of what brother's eyes even look like—and her face is pale and Hank wonders if they ever let this kid outside at all. But Amanda had mentioned something about health problems (a tidbit that wasn't included in the papers Fowler had passed along) so maybe she was still on the recovery? A line of inquiry he'll have to follow, but for now he feels a sudden urge to grab her hand, drag her outside to build a snowman or something and get some colour back into her cheeks.

 

“Alice, do you have something to say to Hank?”

 

Alice's eyes dart to Kara, then back to Hank and he marvels at how quickly her natural suspicion is hidden under a blank expression ( _fuck, what did they do here—train their kids to be robots?_ ) as she stands up from her desk and accepts his presence with a gracious nod. “It is very nice meeting you, Hank.”

 

There's a green crayon still in her grip and Hank shuffles forward towards the desk, just enough to catch a glimpse of what she'd been so focused on when they had first entered.

 

It's a drawing. Well, it's a bunch of squiggles and a shape that looks like a horse? Maybe a boat? Shit, it's not worth trying to decipher. “That's very pretty,” Hank comments with a smile that he hopes looks genuine. “What are you drawing?”

 

“It's a giraffe,” Alice informs him stiffly.

 

“Looks great,” Hank tells her and she responds with a blank stare. “Do you like giraffes?”

 

“They're okay.”

 

_Well fuck if this isn't going along swimmingly_ , Hank thinks, shooting Kara a quick glance. She gives him a one-shouldered shrug, sending the message loud and clear: you're on your own.

 

He'd been a dad once, for fuck's sake. He should be able to do this. Kids are usually straight-forward—find a topic of interest that they actually like and it's easy street. For Cole it had been dinosaurs. Drop the word 'stegosaurus' into a sentence and Cole would be talking non-stop for hours. For Alice though...that's apparently going to take a bit of detective work.

 

He takes stock of the desk—nothing remarkable except an expensive looking art kit and a bucket of crayons—and the open toy trunk at the foot of the bed but nothing stands out. The unicorns on the bedspread might be a hint but kids love unicorns—especially little girls—so he dismisses it as a weak link.

 

It's on one of the window seats that he finds what he's looking for. Moving closer, he studies the line of stuffed animals closely. Unlike her other toys, these are placed with care in a line along the pink cushion and show all the signs of being loved. There's a ratty looking fox and a teddy bear with one eye and a cat with a fake pearl necklace (at least he assumes it has to be fake because holy shit, if those are real pearls, even the stuffed animals here do better than he does) and there, just next to a one-eared bunny in a sweater, is exactly what he needs.

 

Hank turns to Alice and gestures at his prize. “Can I say hello to your friend here?”

 

Alice nods slowly, watching him like a hunted animal, as if he's going to spring from the bushes and trap her at any minute. Shit, no wonder Kara wanted to keep things simple. Alice seems like she'd bolt if someone so much as sneezed.

 

Hank picks up the stuffed Saint Bernard as gently as he can. “And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

 

“That's Waldo.”

 

“That's a good name.” Hank shakes one fuzzy stuffed paw in greeting. “I like the barrel around his neck. Wish my dog would carry one for me but he just shakes it off.”

 

Alice inches closer. “You have a dog?”

 

“Yup. He pretty much looks like Waldo here, except bigger. He's a big as a horse.” Hank smiles down at her. “You could probably ride him.”

 

She wrinkles her nose. “That's mean. I would never ride a dog. That's why I have a pony.”

 

Of _course_ she has a pony. It's probably part of the Princess Starter Kit. “Do _you_ have a dog?”

 

“No, but I really, really want one,” Alice bursts out and _there it is_ , the excitement Hank was hoping for. “I asked for a puppy last Christmas but Amanda said that dogs are too messy. She said cats are better because they can look after themselves and they can catch mice.”

 

“So you've got a cat?”

 

Alice frowns. “Not yet. One of the stable cats had kittens and Luther said if I'm good until Christmas, he'll ask Amanda I can keep one.”

 

“Luther runs the stables,” Kara supplies helpfully. “He's also Amanda's nephew. If anyone can convince Amanda to let a cat into the palace, it will be Luther.”

 

“I already know which kitten I want,” Alice says and finally closes the distance between them to stand next to him. “He's black with white paws and he likes to climb onto my head. I'm going to name him Mittens.” She pauses and looks up at him hopefully, the mask gone. “Do you want to meet him?”  
  


“I would love to.” His answer is genuine too, because she doesn't seem to be the spoiled brat he had been expecting. If anything, he's starting to sense that the Princess is, in fact, a lonely little girl (she fucking has to be if her first thought on meeting him is to befriend him and not treat him like an interloper in her charming royal life).

 

Her pale face lights up and Hank gets a glimpse of the happy kid she might be under that stoic facade. “We can go _now_! And then you can meet Luther and Mittens and I can show you my pony. His name is Snowball because he's white and round. He used to be my brothers' pony but they got too big for him so now I get to ride him You have to watch out if you feed him though, because he might bite your fingers. He bit Kara once, right, Kara?”

 

At hearing her name, Kara smiles and places her hands on Alice's shoulders “That's right. But it's partly my fault, I didn't keep my hand flat,” Kara explains to Hank, then sends him a fleeting look of apology. “Unfortunately, I don't think we'll be going to the stables today. Alice has an appointment with the dressmaker after lunch. I don't think Frau Muller appreciate it if you smelled like horses,” Kara tells Alice, smoothing a hand over her dark hair. “But maybe Hank can come with us to visit Mittens another day?”

 

“We don't have anything to do tomorrow morning,” Alice tells him, a flush stealing across her cheeks as her excitement grows. “And then after you meet Mittens and Snowball, you can come with us into town! Kara promised me we could go ice-skating in the town square.”

 

The day Hank Anderson puts on a pair of skates without a physical gun to his head is the day the world ends, but there's no way he's telling a nine-year-old girl—who's suddenly looking at him like he's her new best friend—how he feels about ice-skating. “Sure. As long as Kara is okay with it?”

 

Kara's answering smile is soft (and Hank feels some satisfaction in knowing he's just passed his first test). “Of course you can come.”

 

“Then I'm looking forward to it,” he says with a grin and gives the stuffed dog a shake. “ Now why don't you take Waldo here and introduce me to the rest of his friends?”

 

\- - -

 

It's only much later, after a morning spent learning the names of Alice's many ( _so many_ ) stuffed animals and an afternoon spent trudging through heaps of snow to get a feel for the grounds of the palace, and after a late dinner in the staff kitchen (because he'd made the mistake of having a quick nap and ended up sleeping through the dining service), that Hank feels guilty.

 

Guilt for being successful in deceiving a nine-year old girl. Guilt because he knows she's lonely and he's just offered up a hand of friendship that's only going to be ripped away in ten days. Guilt because there's a part of him that wants to forget the article and spend the next week and a half just trying to make her smile.

 

Silencing his conscious is something he hasn't had to do in a while but he does it now, packaging all of his doubts into a neat box and crushing it under his metaphorical heel. This story is important—fuck, he hates to admit it, but it is—and he needs to focus on what he's actually here to do and not get distracted by a cute, chatty kid.

 

He stares at the myriad of documents he has open on the laptop, each one labeled with a different heading. His notes under 'Amanda Stern' are probably the most complete but the rest of the people he's met so far haven't given him much to go by. Alice's mysterious illness had been suppressed so well by the royal house that not even an in-depth scouring of the internet had turned up any information. 'Kara Archer' was also a sparse page—the only facts he knows for sure is she was American, she'd worked at the palace for seven years as Alice's nanny, and that her gentle eyes and delicate features hid her age ridiculously well (he never would have pegged her to be thirty-five).

 

The younger brother is a mystery still. Nicholas von Friedenberg had been in the news for less dignified reasons than his older brother, but those stories had been years ago and according to a few royal blogs he'd stumbled on, Nicholas been virtually off the radar for the last five years. Hank knows he looks a lot like Connor from the official palace photos—they're eerily similar except for eye colour and height—and that he'd completed a law degree in the Netherlands, but other than that, his knowledge on Nicholas is pretty much nil.

 

As for Crown Prince Connor, well, what Hank knows about him and what Hank _knows_ about him are separate issues. He'd done his degree in mathematics in Paris ( _seriously, who the fuck goes and signs up for more math after high school?_ ), then came straight back to Beldovia to learn how to rule a country. He was well-liked by his people (the last census done in Beldovia in 2015 flagged his popularity as 'high') and he was friends not only with the Swedish princess, but with numerous other European royalty and wealthy families as well.

 

What Hank also _knows_ about Connor is that under lamplight, Connor's hair turns into burnished bronze and that his fingers are long and artistic and that when he smiles, Hank's fucking chest feels like it's going to explode. Hank knows that he can make a damn good cup of coffee and that he's patient enough to spend the wee hours of the morning filling out a map for a stranger who acted like a complete idiot.

 

That fucking map. Hank has to ignore the map with all of its neat little labels. He _has_ to ignore where 'Alice' and 'Ballroom' and 'TV room' are located, because if he doesn't ignore them, he's going to once again take notice of the set of rooms in the west wing that—until he'd ventured outside to map out the gardens and surrounding buildings that afternoon—Hank hadn't realized were no longer a mystery.

 

He has to ignore the fact that now, on his map, there is a set of two rooms, on the opposite side of the Great Hall and nestled deep in the west wing, that have very clearly been labeled 'Connor'.

 

For his own fucking sanity, he has to pretend that it doesn't exist because he's already losing enough focus as is and allowing himself to fall into the trap of actually _liking_ the Crown Prince would rank among one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

 

And for a man whose life was riddled with mistakes and poor judgment, well, that was saying a lot.

 

\- - -

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

\- - -

 

_December 21, 2018_

 

“No way!”

 

“It's true.”

 

“Really?”

 

Hank stops in the middle of the path and holds his hands up in defeat. “I swear, kid. I'm being honest.”

 

Alice just stares at him as if he's grown another head. “You've _never_ ridden a horse before?”  
  


Of all the things he has and hasn't done in his life, Hank would not have guessed his lack of horseback riding experience would be the key to blowing Alice's mind. “Nope, never.”

 

“Not everyone has the opportunity to ride a horse, Alice,” Kara points out as they amble along one of the many pathways that lead to the stables. “You know you're a very lucky girl to have a whole stable of horses to visit.”

 

“I know.” Alice kicks at the snow by the edge of the path. “You tell me that _all_ the time.”

 

Hank buries a smile in the folds of his scarf at her sulky tone. His initial worries about having to charm a spoiled princess were proving to be unfounded. In spite of Alice's reserve (when they had met in the Great Hall that morning, she'd been quiet again, as if his impromptu tea party with her stuffed animals had never happened), she seemed to come out of her shell pretty quickly when she was given the opportunity. Or maybe it was the crisp air and blue skies and warm sunshine that had perked her up—her cheeks are almost as pink as the coat she's wearing.

 

“I guess I'm the lucky one now,” Hank tells her with as much sincerity as he can muster, “getting to meet all these horses of yours.”

 

“They're not all my horses. Connor has a horse. And Nicholas too.” She seems to drift off in thought and for a brief moment, Hank wonders if he's going to be subjected to the names of each and every horse in the stable. Shit, he can hardly keep track of the hired help (the morning breakfast crew had been a whole new group of strangers to be reintroduced to and it had made his head temporarily hurt), let alone the names of all animals that Alice holds in high regard. “But Snowball is mine and Luther said I can have Nutmeg when I'm tall enough to ride a horse and not a pony.”

 

“And who's Nutmeg?” Hank can only ask, because even though he could give zero fucks about the horse, suffering through Alice's lecture is worth it to see her so animated.

 

“Nutmeg was Connor's horse,” Alice says and Hank does not appreciate the sudden image of Connor in riding gear—all tight pants and slick leather boots—that his dirty old man brain sends him. “But he had to start riding Jupiter instead because my father said that a future king should be seen riding a powerful horse. He said it was embarrassing that Connor was still riding an old, speckled mare, even though Nutmeg isn't old at all and she has really pretty coat.”

 

_Sounds like the old King of Beldovia was kind of an asshole._ He glances quickly at Kara and notes her barely contained surprise.

 

“Where did you hear that?” Kara asks, her tone deceptively friendly, as if her charge didn't just make her father out to be a stuck-up prick.

 

Alice shrugs. “One time at dinner. Connor was sad but Luther told me that he promised Connor that he wouldn't let my father sell Nutmeg and that he would look after her. Luther says that Nutmeg will be happy when I start riding her, because she likes me and she knows I'll take good care of her.” She starts skipping ahead, her bright pink peacoat a flash of colour against the sparkling white snow. “Come on, Kara! Come on, Hank! We're nearly there.”

 

Hank lets Alice speed ahead, matching his pace to Kara's instead because he's sure as shit not going to run (the word 'run' had been banished from his vocabulary a long time ago). Especially not to a building full of horses that he really could care less about.

 

“I'm sorry,” Kara says quietly as they make their way off of the path and onto the road, a flush stealing across her cheeks. “Alice usually isn't so forthcoming.”

 

She has nothing to be sorry about (Alice, in fact, has given him something new to add to his growing list of questions about the von Friedenberg family) and he tells her so. “Besides,” Hank adds with a quick, reassuring grin, “people forget that kids are like sponges. They pick up way more than we realize. I can't tell you the number of times I've had a kid parrot back some stupid comment I made.” Cole had been a star at repeating his dad's remarks, even dropping the 'f' bomb at the tender age of three.

 

“She has big ears,” Kara agrees with a sigh, “and because she gets quiet when she's shy, people tend to forget that she's there, listening to their every word. She once told the British ambassador that the Queen thought he looked like Santa Claus after a three day bender.”

 

“Jeez, that's an image. I'm assuming Alice didn't understand the reference?”

 

“No, but the British Ambassador certainly did. It took weeks of apologies and an invite to go hunting with the King before that particular incident was settled.” Kara shakes her head. “Alice felt terrible when she realized that she had offended him, but her parents decided it was best if she stay away from social events for a while, at least until she learned how to conduct herself properly.”

 

She says the last line as if she too is parroting the words from someone stuffier and more obnoxious, because that certainly doesn't sound like something Kara would say. The picture of the happy, functional family that the tabloids and papers had painted of the von Friedenbergs was beginning to look a lot less rosy.

 

It's a line of questioning Hank would love to follow but he bites his tongue. Kara seems to like him well enough but beneath all of her smiles and sweetness, he senses an iron will. Ask the wrong question and she'd probably thoroughly shut him down without so much as blink. He can't take the chance, not when things are going so well.

 

Ahead of them, the stables come in to view and a familiar flash of pink suddenly darts out of the arched entrance, followed by what Hank can only assume is an actual, honest-to-god giant.

 

It turns out Luther is not, in fact, a giant but simply a massive man who makes Hank feel two feet tall (which is pretty fucking hard to do because he's used to being the one hulking over people). Luther's sheer size is offset by his quiet voice and his gentle sincerity when he introduces himself, a decent tactic to trick people into thinking he's completely harmless, even though he could probably crush Hank's skull with a single hand.

 

Luther leads them into the stable and Hank finds himself at one end of a long line of stalls, a few inquisitive heads poking out over the tops of the gates, while the smell of horses clogs his nose. He'd never really understood the appeal of horses—they were big and expensive and required more space than the average Detroit backyard—but for Alice's sake, he's willing to tolerate patting one or two, because he's pretty sure she'd cut him dead if he didn't at least try.

 

Kara and Luther seem content to stay put by the entrance as Alice wastes no time in grabbing his sleeve and tugging him down the aisle. “I want to say hi to Snowball first and then we can meet the kittens. Do you have the apple slices?”

 

“They're right here.” He pats his front coat pocket then ventures a glance over his shoulder. “Shouldn't we wait for everyone else?”

 

“They're dating,” Alice says matter-of-factly. “So they probably want to talk or kiss or something. Now come on, Snowball's just over here.”

 

_Huh_. The Princess' nanny and the head of the stables. Fuck, if this place was the backdrop for some crappy Christmas movie, then their relationship would probably be the vomit-inducing plot. Not that it's so bad—Kara has so far proven to be nothing but kind and Luther seems like he'd hesitate to swat a fly and their offspring would probably be even _nicer_ and find a way to end world hunger or some shit like that—but the fact that Hank is even in a situation where people like 'The Nanny' and 'The Stableboy' exist still feels so damn surreal that he has to stop from pinching himself every once in a while.

 

Snowball's home is near the end of the long aisle and Hank discovers that the pony's name was chosen for a reason. He's as white and round as a ball of snow and glares at Hank from under a shaggy grey fringe of hair, snagging the apple slice from his hand before Hank has a chance to properly offer it to him. He's also a greedy son-of-a-bitch because as soon as the last apple slice is gone, he makes a point of turning around in his stall until his hefty rump his facing them and flicks his tail. _Never thought a pony could be a douchebag,_ Hank thinks. _You learn something new every day._

 

Alice doesn't seem fazed by the pony's stand-offish attitude though as she cheerfully drags him along to the very end of the hallway where, off to one side, there are a bunch of kittens in a variety of colours tumbling over bales of hay. She steps into the fray and emerges with her chosen prize cuddled in her arms. “Hank, meet Mittens.”

 

Mittens is exactly as Alice described—he's black with three little white paws and a smudge of white by his little nose. Mittens is also a squirming mass of fur and teeth and angry meows as Alice struggles to hold him. “Do you want to pet him?”

 

_Hell no_ is the first answer that pops into his head, but Alice is staring up at him with puppy-dog eyes and a hopeful smile and shit, it's the first real smile he's seen on her face, so of course he's going to have to take the plunge.

 

Hank reaches out a tentative finger and gives the twisting and turning head a few soft taps. “He's seems like he as a lot of energy.” Which is the understatement of the year, but luckily that kind of sarcasm is lost on his nine-year-old companion.

 

Alice cuddles the kitten closer and the wriggling intensifies. “He's just really playful. Hey, Mittens, do you want to see the snow?”

 

“Uh, I don't think that's what your cat wants, Your Highness.”

 

Her smile disappears almost instantly. “I _hate_ it when people call me that. If I can call you Hank, then you can call me Alice.”

 

It would be sweet if Hank wasn't so worried about the kitten's little claws reaching up and taking out a royal eyeball. “Okay, Alice, I don't think your cat wants to go outside today. He looks like he wants to keep playing with his brothers and sisters instead.”

 

“He plays with them _all_ the time. He's bored.” Alice is already turning around and marching towards the open door just a few feet away. “I took him outside last week and he really liked it. I made him little snowballs to play with and he kept pouncing on them. Come on, I'll show you!”

 

Hank catches up with her just in time to witness the exact nightmare of a scenario he had envisioned by introducing Mittens to the great outdoors. Alice puts the kitten down and no sooner do those little white and black paws hit the shoveled path, then Mittens fucking bolts, leaving his future owner standing frozen in shock.

 

_That little fuzzy bastard._

 

Hank takes off after him at a slow jog because he's not stupid enough to risk hitting a patch of ice at full speed and besides, the kitten's still pretty tiny and Hank's got long enough legs that it won't be too difficult to catch up to him. And his calculations are correct, he does catch up to the furry terror, but he doesn't account for the fact that the shithead is also as agile as a monkey and as he reaches down to grab Mittens, the kitten springs off of the path and into the snow.

 

The snow is deep and the kitten fucking disappears in a puff of sparkling white. Hank swears under his breath as he kneels down and starts rummaging around in the snow for something no bigger than a baseball. Christ, he can't lose the kitten—Alice would be devastated and he'd be sent home in disgrace and Fowler would probably demote him to writing the advice column or something equally awful.

 

After what seems like an eternity, his hands finally make contact with wet fur and Hank lifts the now bedraggled Mittens out of his snowy cage and dumps the shivering bundle into one of his hands.

 

Mittens thanks him for his kindness by sinking tiny, sharp claws directly into the sensitive base of his thumb.

 

A stinging flash of pain radiates swiftly up his wrist and it's all Hank can do to keep from flinging the kitten back into the snow where it belongs. “Fuck _me_ , you little, _sneaky_ bast—”

 

The distinct and unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat echoes behind him and Hank has to swallow the other equally colourful words that were on the tip of is tongue Just his luck. Just his fucking _luck_ that someone just so happens to wander by while Hank is cursing like a sailor.

 

He braces himself for what will only be an awkward meeting with some stranger (the cruel part of his brain momentarily makes him think it might Secretary Stern, god help him) and turns, using both hands to keep a tight grip on the hellspawn kitten.

 

_Well fuck me sideways_ , Hank thinks bitterly when his eyes land on the interloper. _Of all the people to run into in this goddamn place, it would have to be the fairest boy in all the fucking land_.

 

“Is everything okay?” Connor asks, a slight furrow along his brow the only sign of emotion on his otherwise impassive face. “You seem upset.”

 

There are two pretty boys actually. The man standing next to Connor looks like he just stepped off of a catwalk after modelling the latest European fashions. His clothes are all a different shade of grey and his coat has a strange diagonal cut that would look completely ridiculous on ninety-nine percent of the world's population but somehow it flatters him nicely.

 

This time, Hank is ready. His bow is quick and he doesn't feel completely idiotic and he manages a “good morning, Your Royal Highness” without choking on the words. Even Mittens decides to chime in with a pitiful, high-pitched _mew_.

 

Connor and his companion both blink.

 

“Is that...a cat?” The other man asks, his odd-coloured eyes wide.

 

“A kitten, actually,” Hank tells him, as if the distinction is something important, because Hank's brain has decided to stop working and fuck if he knows what to say. He'd thought his impromptu coffee date with the Crown Prince had been bad enough but this—caught swearing and covered in snow with Connor just _staring_ at him and Connor's buddy as an audience to this disaster—well, this is just icing on the fucking cake. “He's got sharp little claws too.”

 

“Hank! Did you get him? Did you get Mittens?” Alice skids to a halt beside him, saving him from sharing any more unnecessary details about the kitten, as Kara brings up the rear. “Is he okay?”

 

“He took a swim in the snow but he's fine.” Hank hands over the bundle of fur to Alice's outstretched hands and she immediately cuddles the now angelic Mittens close to her chest. “I think he's had enough of the outdoors though.”

 

Alice ignores the suggestion, hiding her face against the kitten's black fur, as Kara sends him a sympathetic glance over Alice's dark head. She takes a moment to greet the two newcomers, then politely introduces Hank (he nearly stops her but realizes that he technically hasn't met the Crown Prince and mentioning that they _have_ met will bring up more questions than he's willing to answer).

 

The supermodel with the Prince is Markus Manfred and if Connor's expression is robotic, then Markus' face is chiseled from stone. Hank's usually pretty good at getting a read on people—he has to, in his profession, because knowing someone's motivation behind talking to a journalist can make or break a story—but he can't for the life of him, read Markus. It's annoying and Hank adds yet another name to his list of people to research.

 

“Are you going out for a ride?” Markus asks him pleasantly. “It's a beautiful day for it.”

 

Hank shakes his head. “Nah, I'm not much of a rider. Her Highness wanted–”

 

“I said you should call me _Alice_ ,” Alice interjects, lifting her head to frown at him. “And we can't go riding today anyway, because you're coming skating with us when we go into town this afternoon.”

 

Hank opens his mouth ready to point out that he will keeping a bench warm and not, in fact, going anywhere near a pair of skates, when Connor's face brightens.

 

“That sounds like fun,” Connor says. “I haven't been skating in the square in a long time.”

 

It is only because Hank is actively trying _not_ to stare at Connor that he catches Markus' quick, sudden glance at his companion. It's the first sign of emotion to appear on that marble statue face but Hank can't be sure if Connor's friend is surprised or horrified by the fact the Crown Prince seems to want to go skating (Hank sure as hell doesn't let himself think about _why_ Connor wants to go skating because it sure as fuck as nothing to do with him and thinking otherwise will only give his stupid infatuation a boost it doesn't fucking need).

 

“You are more than welcome to come along,” Kara offers graciously. “You too, Markus. I'm sure Alice would love to have you. Isn't that right, Alice?”

 

Alice just nods, her attention once again focused on her kitten, and Hank is surprised by her sudden backtrack into shyness, considering this was her brother they were talking to. Then again, their age difference was pretty big and Connor would have been, what? Twenty-three when Alice was born? He'd probably been too busy learning how to run a country to bond with his baby sister.

 

Markus declines the offer gracefully (Hank wonders if the man ever does anything without some small measure of grace because fuck, the guy is making Hank feel like a lumbering slob just by standing there). “I'm afraid I have some business to attend to in Bevenberg this afternoon,” Markus explains. “But perhaps if there's another opportunity, I can join you. Connor, though, should be free.” Markus looks to his friend and again, Hank catches the slight rise of an eyebrow on his model face. “He hasn't had many chances to enjoy this holiday season.”

 

The two men share a look that Hank can't decipher (seriously, they're like a pair of sphinxes) and then Connor's lips quirk. “I have a meeting with Amanda at lunch but I should be able to join you afterwards. If you don't mind having me, of course.”

 

_Mind?_ Of course Hank fucking _minds_. Their impromptu meeting in the kitchen had been an interlude to what was supposed to be a super professional co-existence. He'd enjoyed it—more than he should have—but it was a singular moment and Hank had been happy to keep it that way. Now though, he can only envision the torture it will be to spend an afternoon in a idyllic Christmas town with the very man occupying his not-so-saintly thoughts as of late (why the fuck did he have to label his rooms on the map? Seriously, it was a cruel joke to play on a lonely old man).

 

But he has absolutely no say in the matter, so he can only suffer in silence whilst Kara smiles sincerely at the Crown Prince. “Not at all,” she assures Connor. “The more the merrier.”

 

\- - -

 

It's a good thing that Connor doesn't join them right away, because Hank needs some time to get his shit together again (seriously, at this point, he can only wonder how fucking pathetic he can get). He even manages to chat his way through a pleasant lunch with Alice and Kara without thinking about the Prince _once_ and he uses the drive in to town to get some information about Markus Manfred.

 

Apparently his father is the Royal Tailor (which was an actual title, with capital letters and everything) and he had grown up with the princes, becoming particularly good friends with Connor. His job description was vague—' _he's in politics_ ' is all Kara can give him—but Kara seems to think highly of him and even Alice gives him a ringing endorsement ('he's _really_ good at puzzles') so Hank can only assume that under all of that stoic grace is an actual human being with feelings.

 

But because his brain hates him, he can't help but wonder just how good of a _friend_ he is to the Crown Prince. They had seemed close with their whole 'speaking without talking' thing and it had never actually come up as to why they were out walking by the stables together in the first place. Besides, if you looked up 'perfect' in the dictionary, Hank was pretty sure Markus' face would be there. Connor could do a hell of a lot worse.

 

He manages to refocus his traitorous mind once they reach the skating rink because Alice seems to remember a promise of Hank on skates and Hank has to build a case worthy of a criminal lawyer to prove that no, he didn't promise anything of the sort . She's got a stubborn streak a mile wide and it takes a lot of apologies and cajoling and, eventually, bribery—hot chocolate and gingerbread cookies—to be granted leave to sit on a bench and cheer Alice on from the sidelines.

 

“Hank, look! I can go backwards!”

 

“Looking good, kid!” he calls out as she shakily skates past, Kara holding on to her hand with an iron grip.

 

The rink is relatively quiet—there are just a few couples and a family of four using the ice—and Hank can't help but notice the wide berth everyone gives to the Princess. Either they're being polite and allowing Alice privacy, or they are legitimately afraid of being within a ten-foot radius of a little girl with royal blood. He can't figure out which one it is.

 

Alice skates by again, a little slower this time but with more confidence and Hank gives her a solid thumbs up. It was sweet, really, that she seems to want him here to watch her navigate the rink like a baby deer finding its legs. Her smile is wide and she manages a shaky wave in his direction on every third lap and for the first time in a long time, Hank feels something akin to happiness. He'd forgotten how much he missed being around kids—missed the bright-eyed enthusiasm and the chatter that could jump from topic to topic in seconds and the sheer sense of _fun_ that they bring with them.

 

Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes Hank even thinks it has a mind of it's own, a mind geared towards cruelty, because it always seems to hit him when he finally starts to feel the pieces of himself that were lost three years ago coming back. It's like the minute he thinks ' _hey, I got this, I can feel better_ ', grief goes ' _nice try_ ' and kicks him in the proverbial balls. The months of counselling he had undergone after the accident—and after the _incident_ at the Times—had given him some strategies to cope, but there are still moments (there always will be) when his grief finds that one crack in his emotional walls and just stomps on through, trampling everything in its path.

 

Even something so simple as watching a young girl skating around a rink brings the thought of ' _Cole would have loved to go skating_ ' to his mind. And then he can't help but think ' _why did I never take Cole skating?_ ' because it would have been an easy thing to do in New York City in the winter (back then, he would have had an excuse though, always an excuse). And then he gets caught in the downward spiral yet again and the lightness in his chest dies as he succumbs to the usual crushing thought of ' _why the fuck didn't I get more time_?'.

 

Which is why the brief touch of Connor's hand on his shoulder comes as a shock and it takes Hank a good minute of steady breathing before he can clamber his way out of the void.

 

“I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting,” Connor is saying as he sits down on the bench. “It turns out Amanda had a few more items on the agenda than I first realized.” He pauses, studies Hank more closely. “Are you all right, Mr. Anderson?”

 

_So it's Mr. Anderson now, huh?_ Well, they are in a public place. Probably would raise a few eyebrows if the Crown Prince was calling him by his first name. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just zoned out there for a minute.”

 

Connor's steady gaze doesn't falter but Hank feels like he can see through the lie all the same. “You're not skating?”

 

“Nope. Haven't put on skates since I was ten years old. I'd probably break a leg or something if I tried now.” Hank takes another breath, trying to dispel the last traces of despair in his chest. “How about you?”

 

“As much fun as it would be to try, it wouldn't be wise. As Amanda was kind enough to remind me before I left, I need to be in good shape for the coming week.”

 

“Yeah, I guess being able to walk is pretty important,” Hank muses. “Probably wouldn't look so great if the groom is on crutches for the wedding of the year.”

 

Hank must have hit some kind of nerve because Connor's lips thin. “It shouldn't matter how I show up, but I have been told that the wedding must go smoothly and part of ensuring that it runs smoothly is that I remain healthy.”

 

“Hey, at least you're being smarter than I was,” Hank says before he can stop himself because fuck, he hadn't meant to upset him. “Hell, I showed up at the altar still half-drunk from the tequila shots my buddies made me do the night before. Pretty sure the priest could smell the booze on me. He threw a lot of stuff about the sins of indulgence into the ceremony.”

 

Connor narrows his eyes. “You're married?”

 

Shit. He can't believe he'd let that slip. His cover story had been pretty basic—simple was always best—but for the life of him, Hank can't remember if a marriage status had ever been apart of it. _Well, too late now, Anderson. Gonna have to roll with it_. “Not anymore. We split a few years ago.”

 

“I'm—I'm sorry to hear that,” Connor says, his voice softening with sympathy.

 

Hank waves his pity off. “Don't be. We weren't right for each other.” Which was the truth, except for the missing part about losing their son. “It's all good though. She moved back out to California and last I checked, she's happily married to some winery guy. Not sure why she wanted to do the whole wedding thing again, but I guess this guy was worth it”

 

“You wouldn't get married again?”

 

It's an odd question coming from a relative stranger but Hank finds he doesn't mind answering (and _of course_ it has nothing to do with those brown eyes focused on him). “I dunno. The whole 'being married' shindig wasn't so bad at the beginning. I guess if I met the right person, I'd have to think about it.” He'd never really thought about getting married again, mainly because he's well past the point in his life where things like getting married are a _thing_. “The wedding song and dance though? No way in hell could you pay me enough to do that again. Too much money and too much stress.”

 

“The amount of preparation that is required to host a wedding is certainly excessive,” Connor agrees readily (no shit his wedding is over-the-top, seeing as he happens to be a prince and all). “But having the wedding so close to Christmas has been a blessing in disguise.”

 

“Why's that?”

 

Connor looks back to the rink where Kara is leading Alice around in a figure-of-eight pattern. “Christmas is never an easy time year for us. We're usually busy with royal duties and traditions. The one positive outcome of having the wedding this close to Christmas is that we were allowed to forgo most of our usual festivities”

 

“What kind of stuff do you usually have to do?”

 

“Parties, luncheons, that kind of thing. There was always a day when we invited the foreign ambassadors and their families to the palace to head out into the woods to find a Christmas tree for the holiday ball.” His sigh is quiet and would be easy to miss if only Hank wasn't so stupidly attuned to Connor's every action (if asked, he could fucking calculate the exact distance between Connor's thigh and his own on the cold, hard bench). “I actually enjoyed that event but the holiday ball was canceled due to the wedding preparations so there was no need for a tree.”

 

“Wait, you're saying you don't have a Christmas tree?” Hank asks incredulously. “You live in a country –hell, you _rule_ a country that looks like something out of a Christmas movie and you don't have a _tree_?”

 

Connor frowns. “No. It was deemed unnecessary.”

 

Probably said by Secretary Stern, no doubt. She seemed like the type to deem something as traditional and quintessential to the holiday spirit as the Christmas tree ' _unnecessary_ '. “Look, I'm more of a Grinch than a Santa Claus, but even I know a tree is a pretty key part to Christmas.”

 

“I did enjoy decorating it,” Connor says almost sheepishly, as if admitting to enjoying the decorating of a tree is something to be embarrassed about. “We used to hang these old ornaments that my grandmother had bought. Each one had a story too.”

 

“Listen, you live at the edge of a forest. There's nothing stopping you heading out into the woods and getting a tree for yourself this year.” His hand is halfway to Connor's shoulder to give it a friendly nudge before Hank catches himself and makes a show of scratching his beard instead. “I'm sure Alice would enjoy it too. Maybe even your brother too, wherever he is.”

 

“My brother is due to fly in for Christmas day so he would miss it, but you are right. Alice missed out on the tree last year and she would enjoy the experience. It would be fairly easy to go get a tree. And it certainly wouldn't be the hardest thing I have to do this week,” Connor says and even though he keeps his voice calm, there is a heaviness to the words that can't be hidden.

 

Hank had assumed that the wedding would be the hardest part of the article to write. Most people were hesitant to spill their doubts about the joyous occasion of a wedding. Before the big event, it was usually just ' _I'm so happy for them_ ' or 't _hey really are perfect together_ ' or ' _that's true love, right there_ '. But after the ceremony and the party (sometimes even during the party, depending on how open the bar was), people's honest opinions usually came to the light. Honestly, if Hank had a dollar every time he heard someone say ' _Oh, I just knew they would never last_ ' when a divorce was announced, he would be a wealthy man.

 

He had been prepared to hear nothing but sunshine and rainbows about the royal wedding, at least until the day after the Prince and his bride said their vows. So to hear the reluctance in Connor's voice as he talks about his own wedding is nothing short of a surprise and leads to all sorts of other questions that the reporter in him is dying to ask.

 

Just as Hank is ready to ask _why_ Connor found the wedding so hard (because what the hell, it might be worth a try seeing as Connor seems so candid), Alice completes her first figure-of-eight without Kara's steadying hand and in celebration, she turns to her audience and waves. Hank claps appreciatively and Connor waves back and the moment to keep prying into Connor's life is lost.

 

“My sister is having a good time,” Connor says as Alice takes off once again around the rink. “It's nice to see her so happy.”

 

“She's a good kid,” Hank says with utter sincerity. “Even if she does like cats.”

 

Connor flashes him a quick sort of half-smile that would probably look goofy on anybody else. “You're not a cat person then?”

 

“Nope, I'm a dog guy, all the way. I've got one, back home. He's pretty good company when he's not trying to chase every squirrel he sees.”

 

“A dog?” Connor seems to perk up. “I like dogs. What breed?”

 

“Saint Bernard. And before you ask, yes, he's huge and yes, he drools.”

 

“I've always wanted a big dog,” Connor says almost wistfully and Hank has to stop himself from making the pointed comment that he fucking rules the country so surely he could bring home a puppy without too much objection.

 

But as much as talking to Connor is becoming the easiest thing in the world to do, Hank still doesn't know when he might hit shaky ground.“You live in a big enough place,” Hank remarks instead. “You could probably have a whole pack of dogs if you wanted to.”

 

“Unfortunately, my job takes up too much of my time. It wouldn't be fair to my staff either—they have enough to do without having to take care of a dog too.” Connor sighs. “Well, if you do decide to take the job, maybe you can bring your dog with you. I would like to meet him.”

 

As if the Crown Prince of Beldovia is ever, _ever_ going to meet his dog. It's not like Hank is actually considering a move to a new country and there was no way in hell Connor would ever have a reason to drop by his place in Detroit. Just the thought of Connor stepping foot into his small house, with the chipped paint on the walls and dust on the shelves and takeout containers in the fridge, is like something out of a science fiction novel. Entertaining, yes, but _never_ going to happen.

 

Hank leans back against the bench and returns Alice's wave as she does another lap of the rink “I don't think I've got the job just yet. I still have a week to see if Alice likes me enough before Secretary Stern offers me a contract.” _Or for Secretary Stern to find out who I really am and send me packing._ “I'm just trying to take it easy and see how things go.”

 

“My sister likes you,” Connor says firmly. “You shouldn't doubt that.”

 

“That's nice of you to say but you don't need to make me feel better.”

 

“I'm not trying to be nice. I'm telling you the truth.” Connor leans in ever so slightly—if Hank hadn't calculated the exact distance between them in his head, he wouldn't have noticed the shift. “You're an easy man to like.”

 

Connor seems to be unaware of the fact that he's pretty much broken Hank's sad brain as he stands to greet Alice, who has skated over to the opening in the wooden walls around the rink and is clanking over to meet them. As brother and sister and Kara chat about Alice's newfound ability to skate backwards, Hank does his best to feign his interest while he feels his last few functioning brain cells going into overdrive because _what_ in the actual fuck was _that_?

 

_You're an easy man to like._ That's not a statement that Hank has heard in his lifetime, which is saying a lot for a man who's been around for fifty-three years. People usually use words like 'grumpy' or 'cantankerous' or 'prickly' to describe him (he knows they do because he usually manages to piss people off enough to hear a few choice words thrown his way). No one has ever been so delusional as to think he's fucking likeable, not after being around him for _years_ , let alone for a scant few hours in his company.

 

Maybe Connor is just trying to be nice or maybe he is crazy enough to think Hank is someone worth hanging around. Whatever the case, Hank knows that the only way he can preserve his own sanity is to pretend that those particular words were never said. Even if it means crushing the lightness that had bloomed so quickly in his chest when those words fell from the lips of a man with the warmest brown eyes Hank has ever seen.

 

\- - -

 

The knowledge that he has an article to write does not escape him but he pushes the thought off until the sun is setting and he's hiding in his room. Dinner had been quick and the few staff members who had joined him were quiet, which Hank was perfectly fine with. He was in no mood to charm his way into their good graces, not when he'd wasted all of his energy that afternoon acting like the Crown Prince was just another guy and not a beautiful younger man who had told him that he was _easy to like_.

 

Alice had been a decent distraction—she'd taken him on a tour of the various toy stalls in the Christmas market before ensuring he held up his end of the 'no skating' deal by leading him straight to the best gingerbread baker in town. It had all been going well too, until Hank caught sight of the bride and groom gingerbread people on display with the future wedding date inscribed on their legs. The innocent cookies were yet another reminder that Hank's crush (and he could admit it to himself, he had a fucking crush) was just a disaster waiting to happen.

 

It didn't help that when Connor caught sight of the display, he'd almost completely shut down, the laughter disappearing instantly from his face. Hank could pretend a lot of things about his current situation but there was no way he could buy into the idea that Connor was a happy bridegroom. Between their conversation and his reaction to the cookies, it was pretty fucking obvious that Hank's previous assumption about the wedding being a farce was actually close to being correct. The only missing piece to the puzzle was _why_? Why would someone as perfect as Connor settle for a woman he obviously wasn't excited to marry when he could probably have anyone he wanted?

 

Kamski had something to do with this shitshow, Hank would put money on it. He just doesn't know where to begin in figuring out how Detroit's most popular millionaire is connected to some tiny country in the middle of Europe.

 

Hank is busy typing away on his laptop as he completes yet another document—this one with the name 'Markus Manfred' at the top—when the phone on his desk rings and disrupts the relative peace and quiet of the room.

 

Who the hell would be calling _him_? He picks up the receiver and manages a strangled “Hello?”.

 

"Hank, I have an idea."

 

It's a good thing Connor can't actually see him, because Hank is pretty sure he looks like a dying fish with his mouth hanging open the way it is. Of all the people to be calling, Connor is literally the last person he expected.

 

"What?" It's not a question, more of a general statement of confusion on Hank's part, but Connor doesn't seem to notice the hesitation and trucks right along.

 

"You were right about the Christmas tree. I think we should go get one."

 

Hank pauses, tries to stop his heart from beating it's way out of his throat and into his head. "What do you mean ' _we_ '?"

 

"I mean you and I. Going to get a tree. If you don't mind, of course. Tomorrow is the only free day I have and everyone else is busy. Besides, I thought it might be a nice way to take you on a tour of the palace grounds.” Connor's voice is animated—fuck, it almost sounds happy—and Hank doesn't have time to scrabble his way back to rational thinking before Connor says “Would you like to come with me?”

 

As a mature man with twenty odd years of experience on the Prince, Hank should know better. He should thank him for the offer and then politely decline it, using some half-assed excuse to explain why he can't go on a private tour of the woods with a younger man who looks like one of his deepest fantasies come to life.

 

But then there's that other voice in his head, the one that drowns out his calm, rational voice. The one that points out the fact that he's already survived a clandestine coffee date with Connor and he'd managed to get through a more public outing without acting like a complete fool. Surely another afternoon spent with the Crown Prince wouldn't be a total disaster and besides, he might even get a chance to pry further into Connor's life for that article that his entire career kind of depended on.

 

“Sure,” Hank manages to garble out. “I'd love to go.”

 

\- - -

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter nearly kicked my butt, but here you go. Thanks to all my fellow new friends who are enjoying this Christmas trainwreck as much as I have been enjoying writing it :)


	5. Chapter 5

\- - -

 

_December 22, 2018_

 

_This is a bad idea_ , Hank thinks for the millionth time.

 

The weather agrees with him. He'd woken up from a fitful sleep to a heavy grey sky and the clouds had only sunk lower as the morning had crept along. He had hoped he might be spared having to get through this whole tree ordeal by the onset of a blessed snowstorm but—as was the case in his life—he wasn't going to be that lucky. In spite of the dampness hanging heavily in the air, the snow had held off all through breakfast and there was nothing he could do but trudge towards the stables like a prisoner heading to the gallows.

 

Luther is waiting for him outside of the stables like a sentry, as if he had sensed Hank's serious internal debate about faking the stomach flu so he could hide in his room and was ready to hunt him down in necessary.

 

“Mr. Anderson, hello!” Luther calls out cheerfully and wastes no time in herding Hank into the stables. “I've just finished getting the horses ready. Kara mentioned that you haven't ridden much, so I thought you should have Bonnie today.”

 

“Please tell me that's the name of a snowmobile,” Hank says hopefully, because what the hell, it's worth a try (and there has to be some snowmobiles around because seriously, the von Friedenberg family can't be so outdated that they rely on horses to get around in the winter).

 

Luther only grins. “She's a good horse. Steady and patient. As long as you can stay in the saddle, you'll be fine.”

 

“And if I can't?” Hank asks because that is a legitimate concern. “What happens then?”  
  


“Then she'll wait for you to get back up and try again,” is Luther's lighthearted answer and Hank knows—he just knows—that if Luther wasn't the size of Godzilla, Hank would be happily telling him which orifice he could stuff that fucking positivity. “Here she is. You can come on over and say hello.”

 

It is with the greatest of reluctance that Hank approaches the massive brown and white beast. His experience with meeting strange animals has been limited to dogs and one jerk of a pony (Mittens the hellion does _not_ count), so the only thing he knows to do is hold out a hand and hope it doesn't get bitten off.

 

Bonnie huffs, her breath warm on his palm, and brushes a velvety soft nose against his fingers.

 

“There you go,” Luther says. “She likes you.”

 

“Yeah, I bet you say that to everyone,” Hank mutters but he gives in to the temptation to reach up to Bonnie's broad neck and give it a pat.

 

Luther unhooks the ropes holding the behemoth of an animal in place. “Here, why don't you grab the reins and lead her outside? I'll give you a quick rundown on how to ride a horse.”

 

“I don't need a quick rundown, I need a full twelve week course with a paid internship to do this.”

 

Luther only laughs and Hank has to bite his tongue before he points out that he wasn't fucking joking.

 

“Here—” Luther hands over the reins “—just hold them like so and start walking. She'll follow you.”

 

Bonnie does exactly as was promised, plodding behind him like a docile lamb. Hank isn't convinced she's the angelic being that Luther claims her to be though. There's no way something this fucking big is gentle—all she would have to do is step on him and he'd probably be broken in two.

 

Still, she behaves herself well enough and Hank lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in when they reach the courtyard outside without any hassle.

 

“Good job,” Luther says encouragingly, like he's talking to a small child who just took their first steps. “Now, how much do you actually know about riding a horse?”

 

“I know you use your legs to say 'go' and you pull on these things—” He gives the reins a shake “—to stop and that's about it.”

 

“That's a good start.” Luther reaches up and fiddles with some buckle on the saddle. “Now this is a Western saddle, so you should find it easier to handle. As long as you keep your heels down and your hands up, you should do just fine. Bring her over to this block here and I'll talk you through mounting up.”  
  


Luther is a good man. He keeps a straight face as Hank clambers onto the wooden box and gets one foot into the stirrup and proceeds to heave himself up onto the leviathan of a horse with all the grace of a beached whale. His aging back protests this strange new movement, every bone in his body fucking creaks, and it is only by some miracle that he manages to get into the saddle and not pitch over the other side and onto the snowy ground.

 

“Holy shit.” His knee gives one last crack as his other foot fumbles to reach the stirrup. “I'm never going to be able to get off of this thing.”

 

“You're doing just fine,” Luther says, his face still a mask of earnest sincerity in spite of the sorry spectacle he just witnessed.

 

“You must be paid well,” Hank retorts, “if you can say that without laughing your ass off.” Bonnie snorts and Hank waves blindly at her head. “See, even the horse thinks it's funny.”

 

“I'm sure you'll get the hang of it,” Luther assures him. “You're doing a good thing, you know, getting this tree. Alice hasn't had a chance to decorate a tree in a while. She's going to love it.”

 

_What kind of shitty childhood has Alice had if she hasn't been decorating Christmas trees?_ “Was Alice not invited to the tree event or something?”

 

Luther opens his mouth, then seems to rethink what he wants to say and closes it briefly. “She's been through a lot these past few years,” he finally settles on saying. “Most people just assume she's had an easy life because of who her family is, but I'm happy that you're taking the time to get to know her. She's a special little girl.”

 

Hank opens his mouth, hoping to delve further into that first sentence—just what exactly _has_ Alice been through to inspire so much loyalty?—when Luther turns towards the road and waves.

 

“Your Highness, good to see you. I have Jupiter ready to go.”

 

Connor walks over to them, dressed in jeans and a rugged, military-style jacket and looking like a regular person heading out for a day in the great outdoors.

 

_Thank God he's not dressed like some fancy aristocrat_ , Hank thinks, because of all the things to have been stressing about this morning, his idiotic brain had for whatever reason chosen the question of ' _what do I wear_?' as the thing to worry about most. Horseback riding etiquette had not been in Fowler's prep notes and Hank had ended up frantically searching the internet for tips on what would constitute appropriate riding gear.

 

Jeans were not ideal but they were all he had in his closet and it's a relief to see that Connor had gone with the same fashion choice. Obviously he was making a conscious attempt to keep this outing casual and Hank appreciates the effort. It still doesn't make the impending hours spent on horseback in the company of the very person Hank does not want to be humiliated in front of any easier to stomach though.

 

“Good morning, Hank,” Connor says with a smile as he gives Bonnie a quick pat on the nose. “Looks like a nice day to go Christmas tree hunting.”

 

_Someone woke up on the right side of the fucking bed_. Hank frowns. “It looks like it's going to dump a ton of snow on us any minute now. You sure this is a good idea?”

 

“Of course! The snow's not due to hit until later tonight. We have plenty of time.”

 

In retrospect, Hank should have pointed out that snow being on the radar at _all_ was a bad sign and that going in to town and buying a tree might be a safer option. But in that moment the smile on Connor's face seems to be solely reserved for him and him alone, and Hank can't look away, let alone form a rational argument against traipsing around in the great outdoors while a storm brews above them.

 

Connor disappears into the barn and comes back out leading a huge black horse that had probably been ridden by one of the four riders of the apocalypse in another life. In one fluid motion, Connor swings himself up into the saddle and Hank is suddenly very glad that Connor was not witness to Hank's own pitiful attempt. He makes it look so _easy_ (and stupidly sexy too, damn him).

 

Parts of his conversation with Alice the day before comes rushing back. _A future king should be seen riding a powerful horse_. Despite the fact the old King was apparently a massive snob, Hank can now understand the general idea. Astride that great black horse and framed by the snowy landscape, Connor looks positively regal. It's as if he were a fairytale prince who had emerged from the pages of some ancient fable to ride into Hank's life and torture him with ideas that have no place being in his head.

 

“There should be enough rope in here to give you plenty of room to haul a decent sized tree,” Luther says as he stuffs a bundle of rope into the saddlebags hanging off of Connor's horse. “The axe and saw are in there too. I couldn't fit a bigger saw, but this one should do well enough.”

 

“Thank you, Luther.” Connor shoots Luther a quick grin. “I appreciate your help. And remember, if my sister asks, you never saw us. I want to surprise her.”

 

“Understood,” Luther says. “Good luck, Your Highness. You too, Mr. Anderson.”

 

“Thanks,” Hank says with a grimace. “I'm gonna need all the luck I can get.”

 

\- - -

 

Riding a horse, it turns out, is not the complete disaster Hank had assumed it would be. The first half hour of the ride is spent trying to get used to the rolling motion of Bonnie's gait and it takes Hank a few deep breaths and Connor's very pointed comment of “just relax” before he settles into the rhythm.

  
Well, _settle_ might be an exaggeration. Hank still feels every jerk and bump but he manages to adjust to actually moving with the horse instead of fighting against it and Connor nods approvingly when Hank asks how he's doing, so he figures his skills have been upgraded to 'passable'. It also helps that Bonnie seems happy to follow Connor's horse, requiring little instruction from Hank and giving him ample opportunity to admire the view.

 

And what a view it is. Around them are mountains wreathed in mist and ice and trees laden with snow and in front of him, Connor rides ahead. He sits on his horse beautifully, all relaxed posture and grace ( _seriously, is there anything that Connor doesn't do well?)_ and Hank is so very glad that Connor is in the lead because, fuck, the last thing he would want is Connor watching his ungainly ass as he tries not to fall off the horse.

 

He doesn't get much of a chance to stray into those less-than-stellar thoughts though because Connor seems to have decided to shed his robo-boy image yet again and Hank finds himself carried away in Connor's enthusiasm to simply _talk_. He asks about Sumo and about Hank's life in Detroit and even about what kind of books he likes to read (Hank surprises himself by admitting to liking old Agatha Christie mysteries, which is something he hasn't shared with anyone in a long time). Outside of the lies Hank has to quickly fabricate about his non-existent teaching job, he discovers he doesn't mind giving Connor some of his life story, which is usually out of his comfort zone.

 

His self-preservation instinct is still clawing at the edges of his brain, trying to warn him that this whole adventure is A Very Bad Idea, but Hank ignores the warning bells because he's currently in the company of a gorgeous younger man who seems intent on befriending him. For a man's who's dry spell in the romance department has lasted three odd years (longer, if you count the last few years of his unhappy marriage), Connor's genuine interest is like water to Hank's parched soul.

 

Hank steadfastly ignores the journalist in him who's gleefully rubbing his hands together at the opportunity to dig into the Crown Prince's life, because as much as he _knows_ —god does he ever fucking _know_ —that this is an opportunity he may never have again, Hank can't bring himself to care right now. Not when Connor seems so intent on killing Hank with the occasional, heart-stopping grin.

 

“Seriously, who goes to university for math?” Hank just has to ask because the conversation has been flowing so well and he really wants to know why someone would choose to spend four years studying numbers. “That's pretty much just paying someone to torture you for four years.”

 

“I like the logic behind math problems,” Connor says with a shrug. They are riding through a clearing in the woods and Bonnie is now happily walking alongside Connor's horse. Hank would be missing the enjoyable backside view if it wasn't for the fact he now had a clear view of Connor's equally enjoyable face. “And I like the fact there is usually only one answer to a problem but multiple ways to reach that answer, especially when you start looking into theoretical mathematics. Besides, it does come in handy when you run a country. There are a lot of numbers involved.”

 

Hank knows that he shouldn't like Connor's dry sense of humour so much but he does. He likes it a lot. “Don't you have advisors or something to help you with all those annoying numbers? I mean, you are going to be King. Can't be that hard to order someone to do the math for you.”

 

“Oh, I have plenty of people who help me run the country. Technically, I'm co-ruling with a council of various advisers who are quite happy to explain how the country is doing. They are also perfectly happy to tell me when they think I'm doing something wrong.” The smirk that crosses Connor's face is laced with cynicism. “So far, I have managed to successfully annoy half of them. The other half are still in the process of forming their opinions.”

 

“ _You_ pissed someone off?”

 

“Does that surprise you?”

 

“Honestly?” Hank pauses, makes a point of giving Connor a once-over. “A little bit, yeah. You just don't seem like the type to ruffle feathers.”

 

Connor sighs, his breath coming out in a burst of white in the cold air. “The council is filled with men who were appointed during my father's rule. Most of them are old traditionalists who wish to keep our country firmly in the nineteenth century. I have spent the last three years trying to introduce new ideas to modernize Beldovia but so far, it has not been overly successful.”

 

Maybe it's because of the relief that has flooded his system at how relaxed this outing has been, but for whatever reason Hank has no hesitation in saying the next thing on his mind. “Your country does seem like it needs a boost into the twenty-first century. No offense.”

  
“None taken,” Connor assures him quickly. “There are a lot of issues that we need to progress on. Our debt is growing because we aren't doing enough to attract new businesses to our cities and a lot of our policies date back to a time when the royal family maintained a strong dedication to the church. Even though we dropped our religious ties fifty years ago, we still have a long way to go to break their hold.” He pauses, rubs a distracted hand across the back of his neck. “If we don't start overhauling our policies, we're going to get left behind. The last thing I want for my country is to become the joke of Europe.”

 

“Can't you just fire these councillors? Start with a blank slate?”

 

“Unfortunately, no. The only way to dissolve the entire council would be to completely dissolve the entire government structure currently in place, monarchy included. There is a process drafted out if ever that were to happen but it's buried somewhere in the archives and probably hasn't been looked at in decades.” Connor shakes his head. “The paperwork alone would be enough to give you nightmares.”

 

“Not exactly an option then,” Hank muses. Paperwork or no, royal families weren't exactly known to be willing to lose their privileged status, no matter how forward-thinking they might be. “Well, there are still a lot of countries that are falling behind when it comes to being modern and enlightened. You're not the worst out there.”

 

“Yes, but we can be _better_ ,” Connor says emphatically and the passion behind his statement catches Hank off-guard. “We can show other nations that just because we still have a ruling monarchy, we can also be current and open and accepting. Do you know, Markus and I tried to present a bill for marriage equality to the council last year and it was voted against by all but two of the councilors? Even though the last census shows at least seventy percent of the public support a motion to bring about change to marriage laws in our country. They willfully ignored what the public wants simply because they refuse to admit that some of our laws are outdated. It's just so...so _frustrating_.”

 

Hank lets Connor catch his breath before flashing him a sympathetic grin. “Hey, at least you're trying. Trying is better than sitting on your ass and doing nothing because you can't be bothered to fight. And you're fighting for a good cause too. Nobody has a right to deny people a chance to be together just because they don't fit some bullshit mould.”

 

The look on Connor's face can only be described as 'relieved'. “I am happy to hear we agree on the subject.”

 

Hank is suddenly thankful for the cold that has turned his cheeks red, because it no doubt hides the flush he can feel creeping along his face. “I might be old but I'm no stick-in-the-mud. Sounds like you got enough of those around you.”

 

“More than enough. I thought I could perhaps work with the council to bring about these changes but instead I've hit a wall. The only way to get through it and start overruling some of their decisions is to become King.”

 

He says the last word with enough contempt that the question flies out of Hank's mouth before he has time to stop himself. “Wait, you don't _want_ to be King?”   
  


Connor's whole posture stiffens and Hank can practically feel the wall coming down between them. Well, shit. And just when they were having such a nice discussion too (the fact that he can also read Connor's body language well enough to know that Connor has just effectively shut him out is a thought he does not want to tinker with right now).

 

“There are...extenuating circumstances that have fast tracked my coronation,” Connor says slowly, as if he is measuring out each word on his tongue before saying it. “It was not a decision I made lightly.”

 

_No shit,_ Hank thinks. _Just like your decision to marry a woman you obviously are not pining after during one of the most fucking romantic holidays in the year._ Nowhere in his notes did it mention that a Beldovian royal had to be married before being able to rule the country, but Hank is starting to slide a few of the puzzle pieces together and the connection, although tenuous, seems to be there. It's the only explanation—even from what little information he's managed to gather—that makes sense.

 

“Sorry,” Hank offers after an uncomfortable stretch of silence. “I didn't mean to pry.”

 

“It's all right,” Connor says unconvincingly, the coldness in his voice is a stark contrast to what had been such a relaxed conversation. “I sometimes get carried away when discussing the politics of my country. I didn't mean to unload my problems on you.”

 

“Don't apologize for needing to vent. Besides, it sounds like you have good reason to be annoyed. You're trying to make some good changes.” Hank tries to smile and is met with...nothing. Fuck, the wall that sprung up between them seems to be made of solid stone. “Look, I don't know much about politics and I don't really care to learn, but I can admire someone who stands up for a good cause. So, uh, yeah—” he scratches awkwardly at his beard, a bad habit that only seems to crop up when he gets nervous “—this probably doesn't count for much, but you've got my seal of approval.”

 

For what feels like hours, the only sound that can heard is the soft _swoosh_ -ing of the horses' hooves cutting through the thick snow and the wind whistling through the barren trees. Then, Connor's voice breaks through, quiet but threaded with emotion. “Thank you.”

 

He meets Hank's gaze, his eyes steady and warm and Hank is suddenly overcome with the overwhelming urge to reach out and...what? Hold his hand? Kiss him? Slide an arm around those slim shoulders and pull him close and tell him everything is going to be okay?

 

_Fuck those sappy thoughts._ And fuck his brain for letting them into his head. Hank tightens his hands on the reins and swallows hard. “So, this perfect tree. Where do you think we'll find it?”

 

His deft attempt at switching the topic works a little too well. The heady pull of Connor's gaze is broken as he straightens and points to the treeline ahead. “There should be some just over there. Come on, I'll ride ahead and you can follow. There won't be much room to maneuver once we reach the forest again.”

 

“Sounds good,” Hank says as Connor trots away, not missing the warmth of their connection (s _hit, when did you become so bad at lying to yourself, Anderson?),_ not at all.

 

_\- - -_

 

“Fuck that tree,” Hank declares as he collapses onto a nearby log, his 'no dropping the f-bomb in front of royalty' filter finally sailing off into the sunset. “Seriously. It can burn in whatever hell it came from.”

 

Connor continues to hack away at the trunk of the mighty little tree, apparently unperturbed by Hank's newly unleashed vocabulary. “We're nearly there,” he says between each pass of the saw, “only a little more sawing needed.”

 

“You said that,” Hank groans, “fifteen minutes ago.”

 

“Are you timing me?”

 

“Yes? No. Fuck, I don't care.” He uses the edge of his scarf to mop at the sweat dripping down his face. “Is this what dying feels like? Because it sucks. Almost as much as that tree.”

 

“I did suggest you take a break a while ago,” Connor says pleasantly, as if Hank isn't dying a dramatic death on a log behind him. “If you had listened to me, you might not be suffering so much.”  
  


_Fuck you_ , Hank is almost tempted to spit out but Crown Prince Know-It-All is right. He should have taken up Connor's offer to do the brunt of the work a long time ago instead of ignoring the screams and pleas of his unused muscles just so he could make a dent in that godforsaken wood. But _no_ , his pride had bloomed into life and he had insisted on doing some of the work and now here he was, every muscle crying to be put out of their misery, and getting absolutely no sympathy from the man who had dragged him into this mess in the first place.

 

“Whatever, just know that you're gonna be responsible for hauling this big dead body back to the palace.” Hank leans back on his elbows and lets the howling wind cool the sweat on his face. “And judging by those black clouds, you're gonna have to do it in a snowstorm too.”  
  


Connor manages a glance up to the sky, which has only gotten darker and more threatening with each passing minute. “We still have some time. The snow won't fall just yet.”

 

“What are you, the weatherman?”  
  


“No, just someone who has grown up in these mountains and knows the weather patterns well.”

 

“Is there anything you don't know?” Hank asks out loud, not really expecting an answer.

 

Connor who, as Hank has now discovered, is actually a little shit under all of that politeness and regal bearing, sends him a mischievous grin over his shoulder. “I don't know how to speak Russian. But I am learning.”

 

If Hank's hand wasn't hurting so much, he would be sorely tempted to flash him a distinct finger. Between the lengthy ride to get here and the stupid amount of effort it had taken to hack at the tree, Hank is pretty sure he won't be able to move for a goddamn century if the aching in his legs and arms is anything to go by.

 

His reprieve from activity doesn't last much longer, because no sooner is Hank ready to lie down and give up on ever standing again, Connor does exactly as he's promised and manages to hack the tree trunk down to nothing and that fucking tree finally tumbles to the ground.

 

Connor has the tree tied up (Hank has the decency to at least help with the knots, even if his back protests every single time he bends down) and is already swinging back into the saddle, his one hand firmly gripping the end of the rope before Hank has a chance to finish stretching out his back.

 

Hank eyes Connor's method at Christmas tree delivery with suspicion. “You gonna be able to drag that tree all the way back?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Hank snorts because _of course_ Connor is going to be able to drag that tree back. He's probably nothing but one percent body fat under those clothes. “Well, you're on your own. I'm not even sure I'll be able to get back up on this goddamn horse.”

 

“You can use the log that you were resting on to give you some height.” Connor arches a perfect eyebrow. “I can always lend a hand if need be.”

 

Like having Connor's hands on him as he tries to get on the horse would make the whole situation _better_. “Thanks for the offer, your Highness, but I can manage.”

 

If by 'manage' he means 'look like an idiot', then Hank hits it out of the park. The 'log as a stepping stone' idea is a good one though and gives Hank the much needed leverage he needs to actually get his foot into the stirrup instead of flailing around on the ground. Bonnie proves to be the placid angel that Luther had painted her out to be, because she spends the entirety of Hank struggling into the saddle—a feat that takes an embarrassing few minutes—standing as still as can be.

 

The wind picks up as they start the long journey back to the palace and the sweat he had worked up while trying to cut down the tree has dried, only to be replaced by a chill that creeps under the collar of his jacket and snakes down his back. He hunches down against the wind, focuses on the forest ahead and tries not to wince as every muscle protests the sway of Bonnie's every step.

 

The trees creak and groan as their branches are buffeted by the gale and Hank glances up every so often because hell, the last thing he needs is to get taken out by a falling tree. It is on one such glance that there is a gust of wind and a nearby tree sounds like it's fucking _shrieking_ and Bonnie suddenly jumps, side-stepping dangerously close to a large pine, her head flying up and her ears plastered to her skull.

 

Hank has seen enough movies to recognize the signs of a scared horse and knowing even Bonnie—Miss Completely Unflappable—is worried about the weather does not help ease the panic stirring his chest. “Hey, steady there.” He reaches down to give her a pat. “Nothing to be freaked out about.”

 

Bonnie shakes her head and her ears prick back up but there is a spring in her step that certainly wasn't there before. She's still intent on following Jupiter at least, so Hank doesn't have to master the art of actually guiding a horse just yet, but he keeps one hand on the saddle horn just in case she changes her mind about behaving.

 

Connor plows ahead, through the stormy winds and screaming trees, with a confidence that Hank can only dream of. Sure, this was Connor's land and sure, he had grown up here so he knew the signs of a change in weather. But Detroit wasn't exactly a tropical paradise and Hank is well-versed in the signs of a nasty, impending snowstorm. He's actually surprised they weren't being buried alive by a blizzard already.

 

They cross an open stretch of land—the winds are stronger now, forcing Hank to crouch low just to stay in the saddle—and Bonnie seems to be settling in to a more calm rhythm again and Hank finally allows himself to breathe. Which is all well and good, the whole breathing normally thing, until they reach the treeline that is dense with pines and a burst of howling wind veers through the trees, sending snow flying off of various branches and directly onto Hank and his horse.

 

Bonnie, who up until this point had at least been trying to behave, suddenly decides to drop her 'nice horsie' act and just fucking _leaps_. Hank barely has time to keep his feet in the stirrups before he's suddenly flung across her broad neck as she takes off at a gallop into the trees.

 

Shit, shit, _shit_. With one hand wrapped tightly around the horn of the saddle, he struggles to catch hold of the reins he so stupidly let go of in his panic, as well as not lose what little of his balance remains because holy _fuck_ , he didn't think horses could move this _fast_. The trees around him are a messy blur as Bonnie the gentle giant proves that giants can also fucking _run_ and Hank has to duck his head as branches go whipping past, tearing at his clothes as she tramples through every bush she sees.

 

He manages to grab onto one part of the reins just as they reach a particular thick batch of trees and Hank gets in one swift tug. But the signal to stop doesn't have the intended effect, because instead of slowing the fuck down, Bonnie veers off to the left at a sharp angle that sends Hank, already unbalanced from the breakneck speed, flying out of the saddle.

 

For one heart-stopping second, he feels nothing but air beneath him. A distant whinny is the last thing he hears before his head connects sharply with something hard and unyielding and the wintry world goes black.

 

\- - -

 

“Hank.”  
  


Noise.

 

“Hank!”

 

Fucking noise.

 

“Hank, can you hear me?”

 

God, the fucking _noise_. Whoever it is that keeps shouting his name is making enough of a racket to wake the dead. The voice is almost muffled while a constant steady howl of something— _wind? yeah gotta be wind_ —and no matter how tightly Hank screws his eyes shut, the damn _noise_ doesn't go away.

 

“Hank, you need to open your eyes.” That goddamn voice again. “Please, I need to know that you're okay.”  
  


Opening his eyes is not as easy as it sounds. His eyelids hurt, which is a weird sensation in itself, but as he blinks, he realizes that fucking _everything_ hurts. And his head? Well that just hurts the worst, which is saying something because Hank would bet that his entire body had just been trampled by a herd of elephants.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses as the world comes back into focus. “What the _hell_...?”  
  


His shaky vision is all but blocked by a familiar face with a frown so serious that Hank wants to reach up and tilt those lip upwards into the smile because that face should never look this fucking terrified

 

“Connor?” Hank blinks the last of the stars out of his vision. “What the fuck happened?”

 

Connor's eyes scan him and as the pounding in Hank's head starts to kick up its tempo, he becomes vaguely aware that someone's hands—has to be Connor's because the who fuck else is there?—are traversing his scalp as if trying to map out the geometry of his skull.

 

“I don't know exactly. One minute you were behind me and then the next thing I knew, Bonnie took off into the woods. I caught up in time to find you on the ground.” Connor bites his lip and his hands still. “I think you hit your head.”

 

“No shit I did.” Hank tries to move and discovers that although the concept of moving is a great idea, the actual _act_ of moving sucks because holy _shit_ everything in his body is starting to throb in time with the drumbeat in his head. “Fuck, this feels bad. I don't think I can move.”  
  
“You can't stay in this snow. Here, I'll help you.”

 

Connor bends over him, sliding an arm under Hank and giving him enough of a push to get him sitting up. As it turns out, sitting up is also a bad idea because the combination of actual movement and the pounding in his temples combines to turn the world into a spinning, queasy mess.

 

Hank groans, bending over and leaning his head into his hands and trying to figure out if he should just lie back down and let nature take its course.

 

“Just give yourself a minute.” Connor's arm is still around him and he's close enough for Hank to realize how warm he is, especially when Hank is starting to feel like a human ice cube. “Let the world stop spinning.”  
  


“It's never gonna stop spinning at this rate,” is all Hank can mutter as he does his best to breath in through his nose and out through his mouth and not hurl all over the Prince's boots. After a few steadying breaths, the nausea coiling in his stomach eases off and he manages to lift his head from his hands without causing the entire ground underneath him to tilt again.

 

Hank squints into the distance and sees the last _creature_ he ever wants to see again. “What,” Hank says, pointing at the offending animal, “is _she_ still doing here?”

 

Connor follows the direction of his finger. “Bonnie stayed by you, after you fell. I think she feels bad.”  
  


Hank turns his squinty-eyed glare to Connor. “Yeah right. She can just go the fuck home without me.”

 

“I don't think that's possible right now,” Connor says, the deep furrow on his brow betraying his otherwise calm tone. “The snow is picking up and the palace is too far away. We'd never beat the storm.”  
  


Hank closes his eyes for a moment against the throbbing in his head. Shit, he really did do a number on his brain. “So what the hell are we gonna do? Build an igloo out here and wait out the storm?”

 

“Actually, I have a better idea, but it will still require a bit of a ride. Are you up to it?”

 

Hank shrugs miserably. “Do I have a choice?”

 

Connor seems to want to smile but does a good job of smothering the urge as he tightens his grip around Hank's chest. “Not really, no. Let me help you get to your feet. Then we can discuss the logistics.”

 

For a beanpole, Connor is surprisingly strong. With his legs shaky and aching from a whole day's worth of activity, Hank can only swallow his pride and accept the extra support. “What do you mean, logistics?” Hank asks once he is standing, albeit precariously because shit, 'standing up' has now been added onto the list of Very Bad Ideas.

 

“Well, I don't think you can manage a horse on your own,” Connor points out and Hank feels himself swaying even as the words leave Connor's mouth. “And you certainly can't walk there.”

 

“And where is _'there_ ' exactly?”

 

“An old hunting cabin of my grandfather's. I haven't been there in months, but it's still maintained by our groundskeeper so it should still be livable. If anything, it will give us shelter to wait out the storm.”

 

A cabin sounds good. Very good. Better than standing out in the freezing cold while heavy snowflakes go flying by and the sky gets darker by the second. “I'll do whatever you want if it means getting somewhere warm.”  
  


“Good.” Connor reaches out and grabs Hank's arm. “You're going to ride with me.”

 

_That is the worst idea in the history of ideas._ “You want _me_? On the same horse as _you_?”

 

Connor is already tugging Hank over to where his intimidating horse is standing by a large rock. “I'll mount up first and then you get up behind me. Jupiter will be able to carry both of us without any problem and Bonnie can pull the tree.”

 

“Wait, what are you do—”

 

Hank's protests die in his throat as Connor blatantly ignores him and swings himself up into the saddle before pointedly holding out a hand. “Get up on the rock and grab my hand and I'll help you up.”

 

“Someone's fucking bossy,” Hank mutters but fucking hell, the pounding in his head is only increasing in tempo and he can barely register up from down at this point. His instinct to fight has pretty much been buried under the snow, right next to the grave that now holds his dignity too.

 

He clambers onto the rock without too much hassle and somehow, with sheer luck—and Connor's steady hand—he manages to swing himself up and onto Connor's horse and wedge himself against the back of the saddle without shedding a single tear from the pain that radiates through his every cell.

 

“Well done,” Connor says encouragingly and Hank almost expects a pat on the head. “Now put your arms around me and hold tight.”

 

If it wasn't for the fucking headache already destroying his brain, that particular sentence would have probably caused Hank's whole head to explode. “Huh?”

 

Connor sighs as if he was expecting that _exact_ response. “You've already fallen off one horse today and it would be best if you don't repeat the experience. The only way you're going to be able to stay on Jupiter is if you hold on to me.” Connor turns in his seat and raises an eyebrow. “I'm not going to bite.”

 

Hank stares into those brown eyes and scowls. “Fine.” He gingerly places one hand on each side of Connor. “Happy?”

 

“That won't keep you steady,” Connor points out. “You need to actually hold on to me or you may slide off.”

 

“I'll be fine,” Hank scoffs, as if he's done this whole 'riding tandem on a horse' a thousand times before. “Now let's hurry this up. I'm freezing my ass off here.”

 

Connor takes hold of his horse's reins with one hand and grabs onto Bonnie's reins with the other and urges Jupiter into a walk. Hank manages to keep his balance for one, maybe two minutes before Connor's warning proves to be true and Hank can feel himself slipping with each lurch forward. He tightens his grip on Connor's sides and it does help. Marginally. But he knows that it will only be matter of time before Connor's prediction becomes reality.

 

Connor knows that he's right too, the jerk, because as they turn a corner around a thatch of spindly bushes, Hank slides a little too far to the right, catching himself just in time to not go tumbling onto the ground, and Connor tosses a knowing look over his shoulder.

 

“ _Hank_ ,” he says, dragging out Hank's name in pure exasperation, “you have my permission to hold onto me. So please, just follow my instructions and do it.”

 

“ _Fine_.” Hank drawls sarcastically but the panic that flared in his chest at his near fall is enough to spur his arms to wrap around Connor's lean waist. “Don't blame me if I take us both down.”

 

Connor shakes his head in frustration but keeps quiet. The snow is falling heavily now and Hank can feel the drum solo in his brain ready to burst through his skull and _fuck_ , is he ever tired. Not just tired, fucking _exhausted_. Every muscle in his body aches, his eyes feel heavy and his neck feels like a limp noodle, which makes holding up his head an increasingly impossible task. Before Hank can think through the ramifications of his actions, he drops his forehead to Connor's shoulder and closes his eyes.

 

His coat smells of pine needles and something spicy—a cologne of some kind, probably fancy too—and Hank allows himself to relax when Connor's only response to this new invasion of his personal space is to give Hank's arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. Warmed by the idea of Connor actually being okay with Hank practically glued to his back and by the comfort of being close to a warm body, it's no surprise that he soon dozes off in spite of the cold, howling winds.

 

When he comes to a short time later, it's only because the horse has stopped and Connor giving his arms a shake. “Hank? We're here.”

 

The log cabin is small, especially compared to the family palace, but it has four walls and a roof and, when Connor ushers him inside, Hank nearly weeps in relief at the sight of a big couch and a large fireplace that hints at the promise of a roaring fire.

 

Connor wastes no time in getting Hank out of his coat and boots and settling him on the couch. Hank tries to wave him away—the sheer bliss of actually sitting on something soft that doesn't fucking move is all he needs right now—but Connor isn't satisfied. He scurries off into the cabin and returns with a metric ton of blankets that he dumps on Hank's lap before setting about making the biggest fire Hank has ever had the pleasure of seeing.

 

As the flames blaze in the hearth, Connor stands up and studies Hank's prostrate position, his gaze critical. “I need to settle the horses into the stable. Will you be okay until I get back?”

 

“Just peachy,” Hank mumbles as he sinks deeper into the cushions, his eyes already drifting shut. “Have fun.”

 

He must doze off again—this time lulled into a snooze by the fire and warm blankets—because he's suddenly being jolted awake by the slam of the door. He cracks open one eye and sees Connor sliding out his jacket and giving it a shake, sending clumps of snow falling to the ground.

 

“All good?”

 

Connor nods. “We got here just in time. It's a blizzard out there.” He pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and leaves it on a table by the door. “I even managed to get some service to call the palace. Unfortunately, it looks like this snow is here to stay the night and the roads are all blocked, but they know where we are. According to Amanda, the storm should clear early tomorrow morning. I hope you don't mind having to spend the night here.”

 

“ 'S not too shabby. I've stayed in worse places than this.” Hank muffles a yawn behind his hand. “Five stars for the fire though. Best fire I've ever seen.”

 

“My fire building skills are legendary,” Connor tells him and he must be feeling better too because his sense of humour seems to have returned. “It's a good thing too, because the generator is out of fuel.” He tosses his boots by the door and shuffles towards the couch. “Hank, I hate to make you move, but that couch is a pull-out. If you're willing to stand up, I can at least make it into a decent bed.”

 

In spite of the actual weeping of his body at any sort of motion, Hank untangles himself from his precious blankets to help Connor set up the couch. There are a two bedrooms in the back of the cabin—both freezing cold and without any noticeable fireplaces—and Hank pillages a couple of pillows and a few more blankets from them to make up the bed (even if Connor won't come out and say it, Hank is fully aware of what the sleeping situation is going to be and he's not quite ready to share a pillow with the Prince right now or probably ever). By some small miracle, Connor even digs up a bottle of painkillers in the otherwise barren kitchen and Hank quickly pops two under Connor's worried gaze.

 

As Hank settles himself onto one side of his new comfy bed, blankets piled high over him yet again, he glances at Connor and sees him standing contemplatively at the end of the couch, framed by the firelight. Even through the thundering in his head, Hank understands the internal war that Connor looks to be fighting because sure, they're both grown ass men who are mature enough to be able to share a bed without worrying about it being _weird_ , but they're still grown ass men who've known each other for like three days. Sleeping together—however platonically it might be—is a massive fucking leap from the 'tentative friends' stage they're in and if Hank wasn't suffering from a pretty nasty concussion, he would probably be having a similar internal freak out.

 

But the headache has obliterated any hesitation he might have had, because fuck, he's still tired and he doesn't need to spend the next hour arguing about propriety, not when the couch is easily big enough for the both of them. “Did I take your side of the bed?” In spite of the pounding in his head, Hank manages a smirk. _What the hell, humour is always a good way to make things less awkward_. “I can always roll over.”

 

“I...there are other beds,” Connor says and his voice is uneven, pitchy. “I just..I don't want to impose.”

 

Only someone like Connor could use the word 'impose' in a sentence and make it sound _sweet_. “I am not going to hog the only warm bed in this whole place.” Hank rolls his eyes (and regrets it instantly because the world suddenly spins anew). He takes a deep breath, tries to inject some niceness into his tone and fails miserably. “For fuck's sake, Connor, just get in here. I promise not to attack you in your sleep.”

 

Connor doesn't look convinced even as he settles as far away from Hank as possible on the other side of the bed, wrapping his own blanket securely around him. “I searched concussions online and it says I need to wake up up every few hours to ensure you are okay.”

 

Hank rolls towards him and narrows his eyes. “I take back what I said. If you wake me up every two hours, I will kill you.”

 

“Hank, you blacked out. You've suffered a serious head injury—”

 

“No worse than the time I fell out of a tree when I was nine,” Hank manages to say around another big yawn. “Couldn't remember three whole days of my life after that accident. This is nothing.”

 

“On the contrary, if you've had a previous concussion, that's all the more reason to be diligent—”

 

Fuck, as adorable as his concern is, he can't handle any more talking. “Connor?”

 

“Yes?”  
  


“Just shut up and go to sleep.”

 

Connor's muttered 'fine' would be cute if Hank were able to think clearly and concisely. But the ability to think is not within his abilities at the moment, which is probably a good thing because if he could actually think properly, he would be able to register just how cozy this situation is, all snuggled up and Connor next to him and the distance between them easily traversable if Hank's body was able to fucking move.

 

Not that moving closer is something he would even try. Connor is practically hanging off the edge of the bed and Hank is in too much pain to give a shit that the man he's got a thing for is actively trying to keep as much distance between them as possible.  _Not like he was complaining when you were holding onto him before_ , a biting little voice points out but Hank honestly can't find the energy to care.

 

_Fuck, I'm too old for this,_ Hank thinks as he closes his eyes. It's the last thought his brain can manage as he pulls the blankets tight under his chin and lets sleep—real, uninterrupted sleep—mercifully take hold.

 

\- - -

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I was hoping to get this chapter finished in time for Christmas but thanks to work and family and general holiday craziness, that deadline flew out the window. Thanks as always to my wonderful readers and fantastic reviewers--your comments give me the confidence to keep writing this silly story, even on the bad days where everything I type out looks wrong. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season!
> 
> Also just a warning: I will be away after New Year's for a good week and a bit visiting my very old grandfather who has pretty much no technology, so the next chapter might take a little while longer to get written. I will do my best though, promise :)


	6. Chapter 6

_December 23, 2018_

 

Dreams are something Hank has learned to live with, particularly the bad kind. Ever since the accident, his dreams have usually consisted of snowy streets and flashing red and blue lights and a small bundle in a bright green winter coat. Sometimes he's running down a sterile hospital hallway, the final door just ever out of reach, and sometimes he's standing frozen next to an empty hospital bed and sometimes he's screaming at a faceless doctor until he wakes up, his throat tight and raw.

 

Those dreams have become his new normal, so much so that having a pleasant dream—one free of dread and fear—is so rare that even when he's in the dream, he still can't quite believe it.

 

Like now, in this hazy world, where he's cocooned in warmth and Connor is hovering a few inches above him and everything around him is softened by an indistinct orange glow. His thoughts are blurred and there is a persistent ache in his head, distant but very much alive, and a part of him just wants to shut this dream down and burrow back into oblivion.

 

But the other part, the part that refuses to let go, is keeping this little fantasy running through an off-focus lens. He _has_ to be dreaming because it's the only explanation for why Connor's face is impossibly close, the fine angles blurred at the edges and that stubborn lock of hair on his forehead that Hank can't decide if he wants to tug on or smooth back into place.

 

"How are you feeling?" Dream Connor asks, his voice rough and low.

 

“Feelin' _great_ ,” he murmurs back and his mind gifts him with the heart-stopping sight of Dream Connor smiling softly and this dream feels so damn good—deliciously cozy and oh so sweet—and this image of his infatuation is so very _close_ and Hank is loathe to lose the chance (unreal as it may be) to do what he's wanted to do for the last two days.

 

His arm feels like a lead weight but he manages to lift his hand and reach up and make contact with skin too smooth to be real. Connor stills under the light touch along his cheek, eyes wide, and for a moment, Hank wonders if this is all his mind will let him do but his brain decides to behave and keeps Connor right where he is.

 

"So fucking pretty," Hank mumbles, his fingers dancing across a smattering of freckles along one cheekbone. The angle of his jaw is even softer than the light that paints it and his fingers follow the edge upward to trace the shape of one perfect ear. “Can't be real.”

 

Dream Connor's eyes close and he leans into the touch until Hank's hand is cupping his cheek and even through the velvety haze of the dream, Hank can feel his hot breath ghosting along the inside of his wrist.

 

"Hank." His voice is almost a whisper. " _Hank_."

 

Everything is so _comfortable_ and _warm_ and there's no worries, no fears, nothing stopping him from enjoying his first nice dream in forever and Hank fights through the heaviness that weighs down his very being to curve clumsy fingers around Connor's neck and urge him down.

 

Connor's eyes flutter open briefly but this is most _definitely_ a dream, because there is no hesitation—no pauses, no frowns, not even a blink of a doubting eye—in Connor's swift motion to close the distance between them.

 

The kiss is soft, just a press of lips for a few divine moments, but there is a tenderness to it that catches Hank off-guard even in his muddled, floating state of mind. It speaks of sweetness and of affection—not things that usually accompany his usual wet dreams, where hard and fast are the more common adjectives.

 

He doesn't want the kiss to end—he _aches_ to bury himself deeper—but even in dreams, he can't be granted all of his wishes. Connor pulls away and Hank opens his eyes and realizes that this moment his mind had so lovingly crafted is beginning to fade away, because the edges of Connor's face are getting blurrier with every passing breath.

 

With the last few threads of the dream slipping through his fingers, Hank lets his hand drop to the mattress and manages to mumble a polite "G'night," before the darkness creeps into his vision, obliterating his wonderful view of the beautiful young man.

 

The last thing he feels is the barest hint of a touch along his lips, but it is so light, so hesitant that it can only be something his mind concocted to ease him back to sleep.

 

\- - -

 

Waking up is never easy. It's especially difficult when you're happily tucked up against a solid mass of nothing but sweet, sweet heat. But for whatever godawful reason, his body decides that it needs to be awake right _now_ and Hank fights for a few more precious seconds of rest, curling tightly against the burrito of blankets in front of him while he chases the strange remnants of a intangible dream.

 

He remembers feeling warm, almost unbearably so, and his fingers ache with the memory of... _something_ , but as dreams often do in those early morning hours, the actual content has dissolved into a muddle of sensations. _Heat, soft, tender_. Those are the only words that make sense as he struggles in vain to grasp more.

 

A distinct sigh that certainly doesn't come from him accompanies the equally distinct sensation of the blanket pile cuddled so close against him actually fucking _moving_ and sends Hank's thought process careening from ' _what was in that dream_ ' into his usual mental route of ' _what the actual fuck_ '.

 

He opens his eyes only to be confronted with the sight of a tousled mess of brown hair at the top of said blanket pile and ' _what the actual fuck_ ' morphs into a very pointed ' _holy shit, no way, you have got to be fucking kidding me_ ' thought process, which causes his arm—which should _not_ be haphazardly thrown across the blanket-bound body of Connor—to freeze in its all too comfortable place.

 

_Fucking hell_. Torn between wanting to scramble back as far away from the cozy niche his body had carved out as possible and not wanting to wake Connor up, Hank can only stay exactly where he is, arm tense but still firmly wrapped around Connor's padded form as he counts the time between the rise and fall of his chest underneath Hank's intruding arm.

 

_If he is awake, then he's doing a pretty good job of faking it_ , Hank thinks to himself as he counts the seconds that go by. It takes maybe ninety seconds (more like ninety hours in "this can't be happening" time) before Hank lets himself breathe again, reassured that Connor—whether asleep or pretending to be asleep—has no intention of saying something or rolling over or of doing anything to make this shitshow even worse.

 

_Fuck my life_ , Hank groans inwardly. Seriously, he'd been in this country for four fucking days and in that span of time he had managed to look like an idiot in front of royalty, go all fucking sappy over a much younger man, fail at riding a horse and get a concussion from it, and now _this_. Spooning with the Crown Prince and a few scraps of wool the only thing preventing this whole situation from reaching 'dry humped by an old man' levels of embarrassment.

 

The option of going back to sleep is non-existent. The option of slowly removing his arm so as not to wake Connor up is really the only route but it becomes easier said than done, because as Hank begins the arduous task of moving his aching arm, the rest of his body decides to protest too, until he is practically whimpering from the effort.

 

Apparently horseback riding doesn't agree with his aging body and neither does falling off said horse, because the only thing stopping the tears from streaming down his face is the fact his head hurts too much to produce them.

 

Fuck he needs something to take the edge off. With a muffled groan, Hank rolls over and forces himself to sit up.

 

"Hank?" Connor's voice echoes in the quiet cabin a little too quickly for someone who had apparently just woken up. "You okay?"

 

_Shit_. At least he sounds genuinely half-asleep. "Yeah. Just need some more of those painkillers."

 

He turns and Hank is treated to the sight of a sleepy, mussed Connor and hell, he did _not_ need to know what Connor looks like in the morning because his sad fantasies don't need any more details, thanks all the same. "Kitchen. On the table.” Connor yawns. “Thought you might need it.”

 

Not only are the painkillers in the table but there is a jug of water too, next to an empty glass, and the sheer thoughtfulness in the gesture is enough to make Hank feel all stupidly warm and fuzzy inside. Crushing that cute little emotion doesn't take much effort though because it feels like an entire construction crew is hammering away at his body and he can only focus on trying to keep the pain at bay as he downs as many pills as reasonably allowed.

 

“Are you feeling any better?” Connor asks as he sits up, shifting the blankets off to one side. “I know this wasn't the most comfortable of beds.”

 

“Bed was fine. Falling off the horse, not so much,” Hank grumbles. “But my head doesn't feel like a woodpecker is trying to dig through my skull, so that's an improvement.” He downs another glass of water, then hazards a careful glance at Connor as he asks a question he's really not sure he wants the answer to. “You sleep okay?”

 

It's not like he was expecting the words 'no, because you coiled yourself around me like some kind of vine and I was too polite to push you off', but still, Hank expects _something_. Some kind of sentence that at the very least has more than a few words in it.

 

So when Connor gives a one-shouldered shrug as he stands and answers with a simple, definite “Yup”, Hank can only narrow his eyes in suspicion.

 

_Seriously, 'yup'?_ Although he'd only known the man for a few days, Hank is pretty sure that Connor is not a person who regularly uses 'yup' in a sentence, let alone as a reply. Something must have robbed the prince of his ability to speak and it is most probably related to the fact that Connor was fully aware of what that extra weight was that had been hanging over him while he lay curled on his side.

 

“You sure about that?” Hank asks as casually as he can, feels his stomach sinking with each word. “I didn't do anything to wake you up?”

 

Connor refuses to meet his gaze ( _fuck, that's another bad sign_ ), choosing instead to busy himself by folding the first few blankets atop the mound. “What do you mean by that?”

 

“I can be a restless sleeper. I also talk in my sleep sometimes. My roommate in college said he once heard me having a whole discussion with myself over ordering a pizza.”

 

“It was fine,” Connor says a little too forcefully, as he adds another folded blanket to the stack. “You were fine.”

 

_Oh yeah? And I feel like I could do a fucking somersault right now. Two can play at this 'who's a worse liar' game._ “See, the thing is, it doesn't seem _fine_ ,” Hank points out because this seems bigger than just his arm around a roll of blankets that just so happened to contain Connor. This seems like that stupid dream might have translated into something real, although just what the hell it was is still a vague mystery (there are hazy tidbits lingering in his subconscious but fuck if he can't get a grip on them). “Which makes me think that something happened last night and since I'm usually the problem, I just want to make sure that whatever I might have done or said won't make things awkward.”

 

Connor frowns as he balances the last blanket onto the neat pile by his elbow. “Why do you think anything happened?”

 

_Because you're being weird right now_ , Hank wants to retort but somehow he doesn't think the Prince would take lightly to such a familiar assumption. The fact that he even knows what constitutes weird behaviour for Connor is just another sign that his crush is getting ridiculous. But he can't help himself from pushing onward, because _something_ must have happened. Why else would there be a distinct rosy hue creeping up Connor's neck? It sure as fuck isn't the fire, because the air in the cabin is chilly and he's pretty sure the fire died hours before they woke up.

 

“I dunno,” he says instead, “just a feeling. Concussions can do a number on you. I played enough high school football to know that when you get your head knocked around, you can sometimes say and do things that aren't normal.”

 

Apparently, that was exactly the _wrong_ thing to say. Connor's frown deepens and he finally meets Hank's searching gaze with a cold glare that even Secretary Stern wouldn't be able to compete with. “I can assure you that nothing happened last night that would make things strange between us. You slept peacefully through the night and although I was up a few times to check on you, you never once said or did anything that would cause a strain in our acquaintance.” Connor's chin rises as he takes a deep breath that belies his pleasant tone. “Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to see to the horses. We need to get an early start if we're going to make it back to the palace in time for my first appointment.”

 

Connor marches over to the door and throws his coat on with more force than necessary. “There is an outhouse out back if you need it and there is a box of granola bars in that cupboard up there if you're hungry. Don't worry about putting the couch back either. I'll send one of our groundskeepers up here to clean it properly later.” He shoves his gloves onto his hands and flicks Hank one last frosty glance. “I'll see you outside shortly,” and then he promptly heads out the door, almost but not quite slamming it behind him.

 

Hank can only gape at the wooden door as his befuddled head tries to catch up with the abrupt change in their—what had Connor so politely called it? Oh yeah, _acquaintance_. Fuck if that wasn't a loaded word, and the way he had said it? All brittle and regal and snobbishly—well, shit. Either Connor had undergone a severe personality change over night or something sure as fuck had happened last night to set him on edge. Somehow, without knowing why, Hank would bet money that it has to do with the dream.

 

_What the hell did I do?_ He buries his head in his hands, struggling to remember something outside of _warm_. There was definitely something sweetly cozy about the dream, like huddling under a fluffy blanket on a cold rainy day, or dozing on a couch as spring sunshine warms your face. All fucking poetic imagery, but nowhere close to what the actual dream was _about_. All he can sense is that he enjoyed it far too much and that he had been desperate to stay in that hazy, intimate dreamland forever.

 

Agonizing over it isn't going to get him anywhere and what with Connor's attitude now hitting the 'pissed off' mark, Hank decides it's probably best to let the whole thing drop for now. There is a granola bar (probably as old and stale as most of the furniture in this cabin) with his name on it and a visit to an outhouse that he already knows is going to be a terrible experience.

 

If their fucking _acquaintance_ is going to survive the trip back to the palace, Hank is pretty sure he's going to have to pretend like nothing did happen (even when his gut instinct is telling him that something really, _really_ did) and be on his best, not-grumpy behaviour.

 

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. It's going to be a long ride back.

 

\- - -

 

In contrast to the tension that lingers between them, the day is cheerfully sunny and the fresh coat of snow makes everything sparkle. It's almost painfully bright even this early in the morning and Hank finds he has to focus on Bonnie's ears from time to time just to keep from going blind. Well, it's either that or Connor's back and watching Connor makes his stomach clench in regret for something he still can't remember doing, so the devil horse is really his only choice.

 

Bonnie's not all that bad though, in spite of her antics yesterday. She'd even headbutted his chest when he'd gone to clamber up onto her back one last time (and it was going to be the last fucking time if Hank had any say in the matter) and he'd grudgingly given her nose a quick scratch.

 

Connor had noticed the interaction and for the first time that morning, the lines around his mouth had softened. “She's apologizing for yesterday,” Connor had said. “I told you she felt bad.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, _sure_ she does,” Hank had replied because sarcasm was pretty much his default tone. “She's just happy to be going home.”

 

“At least one of us is,” Connor had muttered quietly—almost too quietly for Hank's keen ears to pick up the words—but he had urged his horse into a walk before Hank had had time to register what was said.

 

The rest of the ride had been nothing but the occasional “we need to go left up here” or “watch out for that branch” and Hank barely had time to wonder why Connor wasn't heading back to his home with a spring in his step before his aged body had begun protesting the very activity that had caused most of its problems in the first place. It was pretty fucking hard to stew over emotions when every muscle and bone was throbbing in pain.

 

Christ, what he wouldn't give for a hot bath and a bottle of the strongest painkiller money could buy. Something that could knock him out and let him sleep and forget that this shitty morning had ever happened. At least the ride was going smoothly enough. Their pace was more hurried than yesterday, their path more direct too, and Hank can't help but wonder if it had to do with the fact Connor probably wanted to ditch his unwanted company as soon as humanly possible.

 

It's not like they'd been best buddies—Hank had known cashiers at the grocery store longer than he'd known Connor—but they'd had a good thing going the last few days. At least, Hank had thought they did. He certainly had enjoyed their chats and Connor's easy smiles and if he also happened to fantasize about what else Connor's mouth could do for him, well that was his own fucking problem and he wouldn't have let it ruin whatever it was they had shared.

 

Now though, the only thing they're sharing is strained silence. Connor wouldn't even let him take a turn dragging the damn tree, even when Hank had offered a little while back. The offer was a dumb idea—Hank's arms would probably have fallen off after a few minutes—but he had wanted to do something, say _something_ , to break the awkwardness between them.

 

Not that it had worked. Connor had refused, still coldly polite. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

 

Maybe it was the ridiculous formality that Connor had now adopted, or maybe it was just because Hank's dumb brain was too quick for his mouth, but Hank had blurted out “just let me take the fucking tree, you could use the break” before he could stop himself.

 

“I'm fine,” was the Prince's tight reply, tossed over his shoulder without so much as a quick glance and Hank had been forced to let the silence descend once more.

 

_I'm_ fine _. You're_ fine. The freezing winds were _fine_ , the long ride back was _fine_ , even the roof of the stables coming into view as they crest one final hill was just _fine_. Everything was just so fucking _fine_ today that Hank really couldn't think of any other fine fucking way to describe it.

 

They ride into the stable courtyard and it's all Hank can do not to fling himself off of his horse and kiss the ground in sheer joy because reaching the stables means he never has to get on another horse ever again. His descent from Bonnie's back is no picnic but he's past the point of caring. This is the last time he will have to experience the sheer humiliation of sliding off of an animal the size of a small elephant and frankly, it's enough to bring a little lightness to his dead heart.

 

Once his feet touch the ground, he turns a little too quickly and is hit with a sudden bout of dizziness. Swallowing against the brief flare of nausea, he braces himself against Bonnie's neck, resting his forehead on her horsey smelling mane and waits for the world to straighten itself out.

 

“Hank?” A hand touches his shoulder. “Are you feeling okay?”

 

“It's nothing,” Hank says, wishing his voice didn't sound quite so strained, “just saw stars there for a second. They'll go away soon.” He lifts his head (the smell of horse is almost worse than the dizziness and it is not helping to settle his stomach) and faces Connor fully and discovers that Connor is not just an arms length away from him.

 

No, Connor is right there next to him, his face close enough that Hank can count the freckles on his cheek and see the faint beginning of stubble on his chin and the delicate whorl of one perfect ear—

 

—and holy fucking shit, the _dream_.

 

The orange glow and the face above him and how his limbs had felt like they were being dragged through molasses. He remembers the softness of a smile and remembers the feel of that very ear under his fingertips. Remembers those eyes meeting his, dark and warm, and the feel of Connor's skin and _you have got to be fucking kidding me, did I kiss him? Shit, I think I did. At least I dreamed I did._

 

“You look pale,” Connor says, his brow creased in concern. “Maybe you should sit down for a minute.”

 

_God, Anderson, you fucking idiot. What did you do to Connor while you were dreaming about him? Grope his face? Say something stupid? Dry hump his leg?_ Was that why he had woken up all snuggled around Connor, because of some goddamn soft and squishy dream?

 

Another even more terrifying thought enters the game as his throat tightens up in panic. _Was it—was it not a dream? Fuck, did it actually happen?_ He might have taken notice of a lot of Connor's all too pretty features but he hadn't exactly focused on his ears as a specific point of interest and up close, the exact shape looks a little too familiar. Dreams could be strangely detailed, sure, but for his banged up head to perfectly recreate the exact shape of Connor's ear? The idea seems pretty far-fetched.

 

Oh God, had he actually accosted the Crown Prince of Beldovia in the middle of the night? Never mind that Connor had allowed Hank to put his rough hands all over his face, because seriously, what else could he have done? He probably felt bad for the poor injured foreigner and didn't want to add insult to his already many injuries. Really, he probably thought his only option was to play along out of pity and hope that Hank passed out quickly. In fairness to Hank's murdered self-respect, it did seem like the whole ordeal had only lasted a few minutes, so at least Connor had been spared a painfully long bout of uncomfortable contact.

 

“If you need a hand, I can help you over to the bench there,” Connor offers kindly—too kindly for someone who'd spent the whole night dealing with a handsy old man. “I let Amanda and Luther know we've arrived, so they should be here soon.”

 

Hank stares into those brown eyes that are creased with worry (worry for _him_ ) and fights down the panic clutching at his chest. “Connor, about last night—”

 

Connor sighs heavily. “I believe we've already talked about this. There is nothing to discuss.”

 

He's so close that his breath tickles the side of Hank's cheek and Hank has another flash from the night before of hot breath on his wrist and his palm moulded to the defined contour of Connor's perfect jaw. “But there is,” Hank plows on in desperation, struggling to erase the newest images from his mind, “Look, I—”

 

“Mr. Anderson!” Luther's booming voice echoes across the courtyard as he comes flying down the laneway. “Your Highness, I am so happy to see you!”

 

Connor moves away as Luther reaches them and Hank has to swallow a few colourful words. He can't be mad though—the relief on the bigger man's face is so genuinely sincere that it almost makes Hank feel bad for wanting to throttle him for ruining what could be his last chance at being alone with Connor. Surely after this damn fiasco, Connor will be enforcing some kind of “No Hank” zone around him and then he'll have no way to apologize for being the reason things got so fucking _weird_.

 

“Mr. Anderson, I am so, _so_ sorry about Bonnie,” Luther says breathlessly as he reaches them, probably winded from his unplanned jog to the stables. “She's usually as steady as a rock. I don't know what could have gotten into her.”

 

Hank shoots Connor an unimpressed look. “You told him?”

 

“You suffered a concussion that caused you to black out,” Connor retorts. “I needed to let them know that you were injured in case you got worse and we needed to get emergency services up there.”

 

Between the physical pains of his body and the emotional pains of trying to navigate this crazy rollercoaster of a morning, Hank doesn't know how much more he can take. “Wait, _them_? Exactly how many people know about my little accident?”

 

“Kara needed to know so she could reassure Alice that you were alive and well and not lost somewhere in the forest in the middle of a snowstorm,” Connor replies, exasperation bleeding into his every word ( _at least he has some of his fire back_ ,). “Luther needed to know the horses wouldn't be coming back that night so he wouldn't have to spend all night in the barn waiting for us. Amanda had to be made aware of our location, of course, and Captain Allan—”

 

“Who the _hell_ is Captain Allan?”  
  


“The head of security at the palace,” Luther offers helpfully and Hank no longer wants to throw him in the stable and lock the door because at least Luther is being _decent_. Unlike certain princes with a newly developed (but justified) Hank Anderson grudge.

 

“And _why_ ,” Hank says slowly, staring purposefully at Connor, “would you need to inform the head of security that your horse gave me the old heave-ho?”

 

“As I said _before_ ,” Connor says, his tone once again registering in the 'ice age levels of iciness' range. “If your symptoms got worse and you needed to be rushed to a hospital, I would have needed to call in emergency services and Captain Allan just so happens to be in charge of those services in this region. He was even good enough to put one of the first aid snowmobile teams on standby all night in case we needed them.”

 

“Hold it, you have snowmobiles? Here. At the palace.”

 

Connor suddenly seems hesitant, as if he knows exactly where this lovely little conversation is going.“Yes, we do.”

 

The answer to his previous question of how much more he can take is now provided as Hank—unable to watch his words any longer—bursts out, “Then why the _fuck_ did we have to ride _horses_ to go get this _stupid_ tree?”

 

Luther looks stunned by Hank's admittedly harsh choice of words. Connor, on the other hand, has the decency to look just a little bit sheepish. “I thought it would be nice,” he says defensively. “Snowmobiles are too noisy to be able to talk to each other. It's also much easier to appreciate the scenery when you're on horseback.”

 

Hank rubs a hand over his face (and fuck if his hands don't smell exactly like the horse he's been leaning on) as words finally escape him. All of this—the stiffness in his limbs, the growing headache, the fact he wangled a pity kiss out of a man who was probably only trying to be nice—could have been avoided. They could have zipped out on fancy snowmobiles, hacked a tree down, and zipped back before the snowstorm hit. He could have spent the evening delving deeper into the von Friedenbergs' family secrets and woken up in a comfortable (empty) bed and not have had to spend an entire fucking morning wracking his battered brain for details about a dream that had actually been a sleepy attempt at molesting the Crown Prince.

 

Hank honestly doesn't know whether to laugh or cry as he leans against the very horse who had ultimately caused many of his current problems, which is where Secretary Stern finds him moments later, staring off into the distance while Connor and Luther work on getting the tree untangled from the ropes.

 

She greets Connor in a language Hank can't decipher and it's a little jarring because everyone's grasp of English in this tiny little country is so good that Hank had forgotten that English wasn't actually their official language.

 

Her switch back to English is effortless as she turns to him and gives him a solid once-over. “Mr. Anderson, are you able to walk?”

 

Huh, not even a 'hello, how are you, sorry to hear about your head'. _Seems like Secretary Stern is in full business mode_. “I'm a little stiff from all of this horseback riding I've had to do, but yeah, I can manage.” Hank raises a brow. “Why do you ask?”

 

“Because I needed to know whether to ask my nephew you to give you a helping hand to the car.” She gestures to the massive black SUV that she had arrived in, parked at the end of the laneway. “I don't want you to have to exert yourself any more than necessary, given your injury.”

 

“Thanks, but I can probably walk back to the palace on my own.” He needs the walk, even if it breaks the last few working muscles in his body, because he needs some space away from other living, breathing beings so he can get his fucking head straightened out. “Appreciate the offer though.”

 

“It's not an offer,” Amanda says sternly. “And you are most certainly not going back to the palace in your state. You need medical attention.”

 

Cry. When it comes down to laughing or crying, he is most _definitely_ going to start crying. “Look, I'm not sure what Connor has told you—”

 

“His _Royal Highness_ has told me you were thrown from your horse and that you showed signs of a severe concussion.” Her deliberate emphasis on Connor's title is just another reason for Hank to dream about the ground just opening up and swallowing him whole. Seriously, could he fuck up any more today? “As you are currently a guest at the palace, it is our duty to ensure you are taken care of. It would be highly negligent on our part if we do not take you to the hospital so that you can undergo the necessary tests.”

 

“I don't need a hospital.” He hates hospitals. Hates them with a passion formerly reserved for slow walkers and loud chewers. Has hated them ever since he'd spent an agonizing week by the side of a hospital bed, fervently praying for a miracle and then desperately praying that he wouldn't have to make the worse decision a parent would ever have to make. “I'm _fine_.”

 

“We'll leave that up to our highly regarded medical professionals to determine that,” Amanda retorts with a deep frown. “This is _not_ up for debate.”

 

Hank opens his mouth to debate exactly _that_ when Connor speaks up from where he is crouched over the tree and stops Hank in his tracks.

 

“Please, Mr. Anderson—” the fact that Connor has now stooped to calling him Mr. Anderson is just the cherry on top of a shitty cake “—Secretary Stern is only concerned about your welfare, as we all are. I promise you that your visit will be quick and you will be attended by one of our families most trusted physicians.”

 

Their eyes meet and Connor looks like he did last night when he'd been fussing over Hank and his concern had been written all over his lovely face. Hank feels his urge to fight crumble under that look because he's just so tired of feeling like an asshole and tired of fucking up and if it means subjecting himself to the Beldovian medical system, well hell, he can do it. If only to give Connor a reason to start not hating him again.

 

Hank lets go of Bonnie with a sigh. “Whatever, you convinced me. I'll go.”

 

“Excellent,” Secretary Stern says in a way that actually means 'thank God you've decided to stop being a stubborn ass'. “Dr. Fischer is already at the hospital awaiting your arrival.”

 

Secretary Stern spins on her heel and marches determinedly back to the car, leaving Hank to follow behind her like a lost puppy. “Fan-fucking-tastic,” Hank mutters under his breath and gives Bonnie a farewell pat. Bonnie snorts in agreement and he feels a little heartened by the gesture. At least someone is on his side.

 

\- - -

 

The term “Royally Appointed Physician” had brought to mind images of a man in a tweed jacket and pressed pants with a full head of well-styled hair tinged with grey and a pair of golden glasses perched on an aristocratic nose. He was going to be stuffy and throw complex medical terms around like confetti and take one look at Hank's disheveled appearance (he hadn't caught a look in the mirror yet but he'd spent the last thirty or so hours in the same clothes, so he can only imagine what state they're in) and treat him like some dirty peasant.

 

So when Dr. Simon Fischer walks into the exam room, Hank can only blink. He's young and blonde and has a permanent expression of calm planted on his face, like nothing can faze him, not even a middle-aged grump who smells like horse and day old sweat.

 

He shakes Hank's hand with a firm grip—another point in his favour—then sits across from him, pen and clipboard in hand and gets right down to business. He goes through the usual memory tests, asking Hank for his name, the date, and current location (which is the only question he flubs because he hadn't been paying attention to the name of the hospital when they pulled up, just on wondering how fast he could get away from it).

 

Dr. Fischer asks about Hank's medical history, which is thankfully unremarkable, although his past history with head injuries manages to get a fleeting furrow of the good doctor's brow. Never a good sign but it's probably to be expected, Hank reasons, because multiple blows to the head aren't exactly something a decent doctor would brush off.

 

“Secretary Stern has given me a quick overview of what happened,” Dr. Fischer says after Hank's finished rattling off his short list of previous injuries, “but I would like to hear what happened from you.”

 

“Not much to explain. My horse spooked and sent my head flying into something solid and painful.” He's learned to give short, direct answers to doctors. Too much detail and they either toned it out or sent you for a battery of tests because suddenly the achy joints and high fever that you were suffering from turned into a full work-up for dengue fever all because your idiotic twenty-one year old self blurted out that you had returned from Cuba a few days ago. “Got a pretty bad headache out of it but nothing I haven't experienced before.

 

“Did you experience any loss of consciousness?”

 

“Yeah but not for long. At least that's what Con—His Highness said.”

 

Dr. Fischer shows no signs of hearing Hank's slip-up (too bad he didn't hit his head hard enough to forget Connor's name) as he jots something down on clipboard. “Any nausea or vomiting?”

 

“A little nausea but nothing crazy. Mostly because I felt pretty dizzy when I had to get up, but only right after I hit my head.” These questions were always the same. He almost wants to jump the gun and give Dr. Fischer the next few answers before he can even ask him, but somehow he doesn't think the doctor would appreciate it.

 

“Are you still feeling dizzy?”

 

Sort of but only because the adrenaline he had been running on since waking up was waning and pure exhaustion was settling in. Even the examining table was looking like a pretty good bed right now. “No, not really. Just tired.”

 

“How did you sleep last night?”

 

Christ, if only Dr. Fischer knew how loaded of a question that really was. “I, uh, I think I got some sleep. Don't remember waking up much but, uh, I think Co—His Highness woke me once or twice to see if I was okay.” Hank swallows and fights the urge to tug at the suddenly-too-tight collar of his sweater. “He got the idea from some website on how to take care of people with concussions or something.”

 

Dr. Fischer's lips quirk. “His Royal Highness likes to be prepared. And I say that as his friend, not as his physician.” His calm mask falls back into place as he takes down a few more notes. “Did he mention seeing any clear fluid coming out of your ears or nose?”

 

Hank can only grimace at the image. “Nope. He didn't say anything about last night.” He didn't fucking have to because Hank remembered enough of that hazy moment in the middle of the night to be sufficiently embarassed for the both of them. “He didn't even mention my snoring and I would bet money that I snored loud enough to start an avalanche.”

 

This time Dr. Fischer actually grins. “His Highness would be too polite to even mention it.”

 

Hank snorts even as something inside of him softens at the thought. “Yeah, you're right. He'd probably would have just said it was _fine_.”

 

The look Dr. Fischer gives him as he lifts his head from the clipboard is inscrutable. “Well, that's it for my questions. As you are familiar with head injuries, you probably know what I need to do now.”

 

Fucking reflex tests. Hank runs a tired hand over his face. “Go for it. The sooner you do this, the sooner I get to leave.”

 

He passes the reflex test with flying colours (“doing pretty well for an old guy,” he jokes and Dr. Fischer simply replies with a “you're not that old”) and everything seems pretty good after the doctor tests his eyes too. But then Hank's growing anticipation at getting out of the hospital sooner rather than later—that antiseptic smell was starting to make his head pound—is squashed when Dr. Fischer declares he needs to have a CT scan done and kills any love Hank might have for him then and there.

 

The scan goes quickly—if Hank was honest, everything about this visit was going quickly, probably one of the perks of being an employee of the von Friedenbergs—and it only takes about another half hour for Dr. Fischer to get the results and for him to _finally_ clear Hank to leave.

 

“Just get lots of rest,” Dr. Fischer advises him as he hands over a prescription. “And this is for the next few days to help you manage the pain. You can get it filled at our pharmacy, just by the main entrance.”

 

There's light at the end of this hospital-themed tunnel again and Hank is feeling charitable enough to give the doctor a hearty handshake. “It was nice meeting you but here's hoping this is the first and last time I have to see you. No offense.”

 

“No offense taken. I would much rather run into you in town,” Dr. Fischer says with a smile. “If you want to avoid meeting here again, be careful the next time you go horseback riding. Helmets may look ridiculous but they are an important safety measure.”

 

“Don't you worry, the day I get back on a horse is the day the world ends,” Hank assures him and begins the arduous task of forcing his stiffened arms into his jacket. “I'll stick to cars from here on in.”

 

Dr. Fischer's lips purse. “Mr. Anderson, have you by any chance seen the back of your coat?”  
  


“Uh, no?” Today's word of the day was apparently ' _weird'_. Weird moments and weird silences and now weird questions.

 

“It looks like your accident may have also done some damage to your coat too.

 

Hank frowns in confusion and slides his arms out of the sleeves. Holding his precious jacket in his hands, he turns it around and notices, for the very first time, that it is no longer the same intact jacket he had put on yesterday morning. Now the back of his _only_ winter jacket is no longer one solid piece of cloth but fucking ripped to pieces _,_ exposing the fuzzy white padding underneath.

 

“Fu _—fudge_.” He catches himself just in time before he swears in front of yet another innocent citizen. “You have _got_ to be _kidding_ me. No _wonder_ it was so damn cold this morning.”

 

“You didn't notice it?” Dr. Fischer asks and Hank can almost hear the doctor gears working inside his head. _You were not aware of a large tear in your coat even though you claim to be alert and oriented after your severe concussion?_

 

This...this is not how you get out of the hospital quickly. “It was early and I was tired.” _And I was too busy trying to figure out why the Crown Prince refused to look at me_. “We had to leave the cabin pretty quickly because His Highness had some important stuff today that he had to be back for. Not sure why nobody else mentioned it though. It's not exactly hard to see”

 

“Perhaps with the stress of your return and rushing you here, they didn't notice it either.” Dr. Fischer rips a scrap of paper off of his notepad, then quickly scribbles something down and hands it to him. “Here, this is the name and number of a decent clothing shop in town. Just tell them Simon sent you and they'll give you a fair price.”

 

“Thanks, Doc.” The chicken scratch is somewhat legible—not bad for a doctor—and Hank can make out a word or two that must be in Beldovian. “Any idea if they're open tomorrow? Don't think I can handle anything else today.”

 

“I believe they will be open until noon tomorrow. Most shops in town will have the same schedule too, since it's Christmas eve.”

 

_Christmas eve._ With all of the insanity over the last few hours, Hank had completely forgotten about the impending arrival of Christmas. Great, just fucking _great_. There was no way in hell his headache would be getting better over the next few days, not with Christmas carols and Christmas traditions and god knows what else the von Friedenbergs would subject him to in celebration. Not that he was expecting to be treated like a true employee just yet—and being on Connor's shit list might get him out of a few things and _no_ , that thought was not hurtful—but Alice seemed to like him and Kara would probably invite him along for a few things if Alice wanted him there.

 

At least he had the rest of today to hide in his room and sleep. Which was such a happy thought that it carried him through the final goodbyes with Dr. Fischer and through filling his prescription with a pharmacist who talked to him like he was a child and through the drive back to the palace with Secretary Stern, who had wasted no time in cornering him in the backseat. No sooner had they pulled away from the hospital when a nondisclosure agreement had been tossed into his lap, along with the bills from his brief visit.

 

“As you can see in this document, Mr. Anderson,” she had said, her voice honeyed and sweeter than he had ever thought her possible of being, “the royal family has kindly paid off your medical bills as an apology for putting you through such an ordeal. We only ask that you sign this paper to ensure that word of your little _adventure_ with the Crown Prince stays between us. The royal family value their privacy, you see, and prefer not to have their personal business aired out in public”

 

Personal business? A tidy way of saying 'the Crown Prince spent the night in a tiny, isolated cabin with an older man even though he's supposed to be marrying a young woman in the next few days'. Hank wants to laugh—even though he has standards for what he writes, he can envision the kind of story even a halfway decent journalist would be able to get out of that nugget of information. Although it's not like he'd be able to write such a story, no matter how desperate he gets, because the car's stopped at the gates to the palace with no intention of moving and Secretary Stern is staring at him expectantly.

 

He gets the distinct feeling that if he were to refuse signing the paper, she would simply have the driver turn the car around and take him straight to the airport, where he would be hustled on the first flight out of the country and put on some permanent No Entry list. He's also pretty sure he'd be met by a few Beldovian lawyers along the way, probably before he even stepped foot in the airport.

 

Hank holds out a hand. “Where's the pen?”

 

In spite of the headache burning away at his temples, he briefs over the nondisclosure agreement to make sure he's not screwing himself over. It's clear and concise and pretty much just a guarantee that if Hank were ever to open his big, fat mouth, he would be slapped with so many lawsuits, he'd have to hire an army of lawyers to save him from complete ruin.

 

_No wonder the von Friedenbergs don't show up in the usual gossip rags_ , Hank thinks as he scrawls his name at the bottom of the paper. _I was wrong._ _Amanda Stern is not an Ice Queen, she's a fucking Ice Dragon, protecting the family and straight up murdering anybody who dares to breach the palace walls._

 

With the signed paper back in her hands, Secretary Stern signals to the driver to continue and Hank has to keep his expression carefully blank because fuck if he doesn't want her to know how much he's both intimidated and awed by her. No wonder the late Queen had hired her—Secretary Stern was a force to be reckoned with.

 

The car pulls up to the formal main entrance of the castle, with the massive double doors, and he starts to protest—he smells and his coat is in rough shape and god knows what his face even looks like at this point –but before he can get two words in, the driver is ushering him out of the SUV.

 

One large wooden door swings open as he reaches the top step and Hank barely has a second to crouch down (oh god does his body ever fucking _hurt_ ) to catch Alice as she comes running towards him.

 

“Hank!” She flings her arms around him and he forces his stiffened arms to hug her back. Dammit, the first nice greeting he's had all day and he can barely move. “You're back! I was scared that I wouldn't get to see you!”

 

He does his best not to let his confusion show. Poor kid seems worried enough as it is. “Why would you think that?”  
  


Kara comes out of the door at a much more natural pace than her charge. “We have a gingerbread house competition to attend to in the city and it usually takes the whole afternoon.” The smile she sends him is one of relief. “I'm so glad we caught you before we left. Alice really wanted to see you but I told her that you might not be up for visitors later on.”

 

True, his only goal is to sleep for the next hundred years or so, but he would still force himself to wake up if it meant getting to spend some time with Alice. “Nah, I'm always up for a visit with you, Alice. But I'll probably be pretty sleepy so no promises on being able to do much.”

 

“I can read you a story if you want,” Alice says as she lets go of him, her dark eyes looking up at him hopefully. “Or we can watch a movie. Have you seen _Zootopia_?”

 

“Nope, never heard of it.”

 

Alice's eyes widen. “Really? It's my favourite! There's this world of animals who walk and talk and dress like people, and there's this bunny who's a police officer and a fox—”

 

“Alice, honey, don't spoil the movie for Hank. He wants it to be a surprise” Kara interrupts her gently with a surreptitious wink in Hank's direction. “Now let Hank get up off of the cold steps. He probably needs to lie down and we need to get going or we're going to be late. You know how Amanda feels about being late.”

 

Alice's face falls as she steps back and Hank feels a twinge in his heart, equalled only by the twinge in his legs as he stands up. Her brother may not be his biggest fan, but Alice's genuine excitement at seeing him means a lot. He doesn't know what he's done to deserve her trust after such a short time but fuck, he's going to at least try to make sure she doesn't regret it for the next few days (he shoves the looming dark cloud that is his assigned article off to the nether regions of his subconscious because he's reached his limit of depressing thoughts today).

 

“Can't we just skip the gingerbread contest?” Alice asks Kara desperately. “I don't do anything anyway. Connor does all the talking and we just sit in those dumb chairs and Amanda is always telling me to smile and that crazy man from Grachen always makes me try his gingerbread cookies.”

 

“He's not crazy, Alice, he's just lonely.” Kara shakes her head. “And no, we can't miss this. But now that your brother knows Hank is back, I'm sure he'll work hard to make the contest go by quickly. He knows how much you missed spending time with Hank.” Kara sends Hank an apologetic look. “I know Connor would be here to welcome you back too but he's already in town getting ready.”

 

“Not a problem,” Hank says as he attempts to shrug casually and not think of their frosty parting that morning. “He's probably tired of me anyway.”

 

“Connor likes you!” Alice declares innocently (and Hank makes a mental note to dial back the sarcasm because she looks like she's just seen someone kick a puppy). “He told me so.”

 

_Yeah, that was probably before I forced him to kiss me in the middle of the night and then wrapped myself around him like a snake._ “That's sweet of you to say, kid, but your brother's a nice guy. He probably says that about a lot of people. ” He tries to soften his words with a smile but Alice seems to be having none of it.

 

“It's _true_ ,” Alice says stubbornly. “When he told me you were going to the hospital to see Simon, he promised me that they wouldn't put you in the machine that makes all those scary noises—”

 

“The MRI,” Kara supplies helpfully at Hank's look of confusion.

 

“—because it might make your headache worse and he said he likes you too much to make you do it.”

 

Hank freezes in shock as his dying brain—and it really _is_ dying at this point—struggles to process all of the information Alice had just gifted to him. Information not only about the fact that Connor might not despise him but also about Alice herself. Like the fact she's on a first name basis with Dr. Fischer and that she knows not only what an MRI is but also what it sounds like. He's heard enough alluding to the Princess' potential health problems over the last few days but this is the first time he's clued in to the fact that they might be more serious than everybody was letting on.

 

“You can tell your brother that I say 'thank you' when you see him,” Hank says. “It was the fastest visit to the hospital I've ever had.”

 

Kara reaches down and grabs Alice's hand before she can start talking again—Kara can probably smell a delay tactic when she sees one—and gives her a tug. “Alice, why don't you head over to the car and say hello to Amanda? I need to ask Hank something before we leave.”

 

Alice's dark eyes flick between the two adults but she seems to accept her fate. “Okay. But promise that you won't be too long.”

 

“This will only take a minute, I promise,” Kara assures her. She waits until Alice is safely bundled into the SUV before she lays a hand on Hank's sleeve. “Sorry if she's a little enthusiastic. I couldn't hide what happened from her and she spent most of the night looking out the window in case you decided to come back.”

 

“She didn't have to worry so much about me.” His heart twists at the image of Alice with her nose pressed up to the glass, watching and waiting. “It was just a fall. Not a great one, but could've been worse.”

 

Kara studies him for a moment, as if weighing the next words in her head. “Alice has had some bad experiences with snowstorms. They make her nervous. When she heard neither of you would be able to come back until the next morning—and that you were injured—it took her to a bad place. To be honest, neither of us got much sleep last night, so you might be safe from us after this competition is over. It's always a long afternoon and she'll probably be out like a light by the time we get home. We both will,” Kara says with a laugh. “But I actually wanted to let you know that Luther managed to smuggle the tree in without Alice noticing. We're planning on surprising her with it tomorrow, so if you can keep it a secret until then, it would be much appreciated.”

 

Hank grins at the image of someone the size of Luther trying to sneak a large pine tree into the palace. Luckily the place was huge or else that would have been an impossible feat. “My lips are sealed.”

 

“I know it was a bit complicated to get this tree”— _complicated is a_ bit _of an understatement_ —“but _thank you_.” Kara squeezes his arm, her answering smile genuinely grateful. “She's going to be over the moon. I hope you'll be feeling well enough to join us decorating it tomorrow.”

 

As long as he doesn't have to move ever again, it should be just fantastic. “Decorating a tree is my favourite thing to do.”

 

There is a sudden beep from the waiting car and Kara's smile turns into one of amusement. “I guess that's my cue to leave.” She gives his arm one last pat. “I hope you get a chance to rest and if you don't hear from us by this evening, that means we've probably passed out too so you might get one more night free of Alice's favourite movies. Just to warn you, they all involve animals.”

 

No surprise there, judging by her stuffed animal collection. “How many times have you seen _Zootopia_?”

 

Kara laughs as she heads down the stairs. “More times than I can count. But not as many times as I've seen _The Lion King_. Be prepared to watch that one a few times too many.”

 

“Thanks for the warning,” he calls out and sends Kara and the other people in the car one final wave before he ducks through the imposing doorway and into the beautiful peace of the main hall. The footman by the door gives him a brief nod but he is blessedly quiet, as are the other servants that Hank staggers by on his journey to his precious oasis of silence and soft beds and actual modern plumbing.

 

There's a surprise (three surprises, in fact) waiting outside of his door that give him to reason to smile his first true smile of the day. The first is a covered plate, resting on top of a collapsible table, that looks to be real, honest-to-god food, and sitting next to the table is Waldo the stuffed Saint Bernard with what appears to be a folded piece of paper tucked into his collar.

 

He bends down—for what he can only hope will be the _last_ time today—and picks up the stuffed dog and plunks him down on top of his lunch, before removing the paper and gently unfolding it.

 

It is a picture, drawn in marker, of two people underneath a happy sun and surrounded by trees, with a round blob of brown and white with ears by their side ( _Bonnie? Or is it supposed to be Waldo? Maybe Sumo?_ ). One person has a brown ponytail and a pink coat and is holding the hand of the other person, who has a bunch of scribbled grey hair on his head and face.

 

His fingers tighten on the paper as he swallows past a strange lump on his throat. Fuck if it isn't the nicest thing he's seen in a long time. In _years_. He can't remember the last time he'd been given a hand drawn picture (the only pictures Cole had ever done were because he'd been forced to them in school). It's beautiful and touching and he can even forgive the fact that Alice gave him a rat's nest of grey hair because it means she took the time to _really_ draw him.

 

As he stares at the picture, he decides to do something he hasn't done in years. It will probably be the worst decision of his life and he will be forced to do things that he would normally avoid like the plague. But Alice deserves nothing but wonderful things and although the Christmas tree was a good start, he knows he can do more. He'd tinkered with the idea briefly over the last two days but now his resolve is strengthened and his mission is set in stone.

 

Carefully folding the drawing, he makes a mental note to call Kara later that day and get some ideas. It's not every day Hank Anderson willingly goes shopping on the busiest fucking shopping day of the year, but for Alice? Well, he can suffer through a trip to the hell that is a store on Christmas eve if it means getting another chance to see her happy.

 

\- - -

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Christmas and family didn't kill me but it certainly killed my writing time, so sorry for the long delay. I was doing pretty well having at least one chapter done and ready to edit, with the next one halfway typed up, but thanks to the holidays, I am now typing chapters as I go. Between work and life, I will do my best to keep up but not sure how quickly I will be able to finish this story. Hope you guys don't mind reading a Christmas story through the winter months. This shouldn't be a super long though--maybe thirteen or fourteen chapters--so if all goes well with work and life, you shouldn't be stuck reading Christmas stuff in July. 
> 
> Wishing all of you wonderful HankCon people a Happy New Year!


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